


The Sea Within Their Souls

by scathach124



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, RMS Titanic, Romance, STEAMM - Freeform, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scathach124/pseuds/scathach124
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's April 1912, and the Crawleys, Strallans, and Bransons are travelling aboard the RMS Titanic on her maiden voyage. For each of them, it is a chance for adventure and rekindling of romance – but fate shall intervene, and soon the dream-come-alive turns into a passionate, terrifying race for survival. Amidst icy waters and a crumbling ship, how can one cling to both life and love? </p><p>STEAMM AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ship of Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers, loyal or otherwise! This is another STEAMM fiction, based on the event that set the gears of Downton turning in the very first season. The year is 1912, and our three lovely couples are among many looking for adventure on board the RMS Titanic. Everyone is already married, but no one has children yet. The Bransons live in Dublin, the Crawleys live in London, and the Strallans live in the Yorkshire countryside; they have all secured tickets onto the biggest steam liner ever seen. The story will, needless to say, start at the Titanic's departure from Southampton and follow the events of the disaster.
> 
> As a major history geek, I am aiming to make my portrayal of the Titanic as accurate as possible; meaning the setting and the sequence of events are meant to be as if it were on that fateful voyage. I've done quite a bit of reading about the ship, particularly about what she was like in the days before she sank. Of course, there will be inexactness, either for purposes of storytelling or an inability to find credible sources, but for the most part I am hoping to paint as real a picture as I can. (if any of you want the sources from my research, I will be happy to send you some). Of course, inspiration also came from the James Cameron version of Titanic, which holds a rather special place in my heart particularly because it was released the same year I was born.
> 
> And as an advance apology: I am so, so sorry if I make you cry. I really am – I don't want to make you cry so hard your soul rips in two. Please don't hate me if that happens.

 

> _But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls._
> 
> —  _Khalil Gibran_

 

_April 10 – Southampton Dock_

 

"I think I can see it," Edith breathed, craning her head to get a better look through the square car window.

"Can you?" Anthony squinted through the windshield, pretending to strain his eyes. "You can't mean that sorry little dinghy bobbing up and down next to the pier?"

"Oh, stop," Edith laughed. "You can see it perfectly." She pointed. "There, in front of us."

Anthony squinted again, smiling widely. "Aha! There it is. I couldn't see with all of the people blocking my view."

Edith shook her head, grinning as well. "Even if all of England were standing here today you'd be able to see it – it's massive!"

"Of course it is, darling. That's why they named her the  _Titanic._ The biggest ship in the world," Anthony said proudly, as if  _he_  were the architect. "Built to be indestructible."

"I've heard it called 'unsinkable,'" Edith said, "although I'll never understand how a vessel made of iron and steel won't sink like a rock to the bottom of the ocean."

Anthony chuckled. "The finest engineers and builders living today designed her. I assure you it will float like a feather on the water."

The port at Southampton was teeming with voyagers and well-wishers, the rich and poor clustered together amongst officers shouting at the top of their lungs. There were elderly couples commencing one last adventure, young people beginning a new life, holiday-goers and labourers searching for new opportunities. Children sat on the shoulders of their fathers, marvelling at the sheer size of the ship before them. Wealthy men and women, American and English alike, sauntered up the gangplank to the higher decks, and the throng lined up for steerage shuffled about for papers and attempted to look as clean as possible. Pulleys were lifting an automobile high into the air and trucks laden with luggage honked noisily. And all who were already aboard the great steam liner grinned and waved their handkerchiefs, waiting eagerly to launch into a momentous journey.

The Strallans' chauffeur pounded on the horn, jerking forward just enough to reach the drop-off point. Anthony's valet immediately alighted from the passenger seat and began instructing a flustered-looking officer on the luggage.

"The cases from this car and that one are going to parlour suite B53," he rattled off.

"Sir, the luggage must be checked through the main terminal over that way—"

The chauffeur opened the door and helped Edith out. Standing on the dock, looking up at the colossal ship, she felt her heart jump at the sight. A vessel both of exorbitant luxury and modern engineering prowess, about to set off on her maiden voyage – truly, how could anyone think of missing it?

Anthony stepped out of the car, looking around at the excited crowd swarming in front of them, then up at the ship again. "Amazing, isn't it?"

"Truly," Edith agreed. To her, though, it was more than simply amazing. Wonders never ceased in the modern world, and this was one that no one could forget. She had only just seen it for the first time, but she was quick to conclude that it put every other steamer to shame, and it set impossible standards for the ones yet to be built.

She looked around, trying to see above the many heads and hats. "I can't see Mary's car. Do you think they're already on the ship?"

From behind sounded another irritated car horn, and Edith and Anthony turned to see the Crawleys' car and another taxi approaching the drop-off point.

"Speak of the devil," Anthony said, barely loud enough to be heard over the din of the crowd.

For the first time in her life Edith was excited to see her older sister – perhaps a few months apart was enough to cool the stormy relation between them. As soon as Mary stepped out of the automobile she shared a warm but polite embrace with Edith.

"Edith, dear," she greeted, kissing her sister lightly on the cheek.

"It's so lovely to see you," Edith replied.

Matthew climbed out of the car, shaking hands with Anthony before tipping his hat to Edith. "How thrilling to reunite the Crawley sisters on such a historic occasion."

"We're not all accounted for yet," Mary reminded him. "Sybil will join us when the ship calls on Queenstown tomorrow, remember?"

"I hope  _Titanic_  will be big enough for all three of you," Matthew quipped.

Mary ignored her husband's jest and looked up at the gigantic steam liner with a critical eye. "It doesn't look any different from other ships," she decided. "It's big, of course, but not by much."

She had seen her fair share of steam liners before, but primarily in grainy newspaper photographs that made small ships seem large and the other way around. Aside from the number of funnels, there were few indications of difference in their architectures, especially when the shipping companies were the same.

"Mary, I'm certain your opinion will change once we get inside," Matthew said. "The first-class facilities are as excellent as a luxury hotel, I'm told. Unprecedented magnificence, or so the White Star Line says."

"I'll be the judge of that," Mary said, but without much seriousness. In truth,  _Titanic_ did impress her, more so than she believed it would. A vessel of such sheer size was both daunting and riveting to her, and she was just as eager as anyone to board and explore, to bask in the wonders of what  _Titanic_ had to offer. How she would have loathed to miss such a landmark journey, the maiden voyage of the biggest man-made moving object ever built! Even if she had to suffer it with her younger sisters ...

"Anna, make sure the cases are sent to the right suite. I'm leaving my coat with you," Mary said to her lady's maid.

"You're in B55, correct?" Edith asked. "You'll be right next to us."

Mary tried not to roll her eyes. "How convenient."

"Just like old times," Edith bantered.

"I'm sure it won't be as unpleasant as you imagine it to be," Anthony said. "The first-class accommodation are quite spacious. You'll quickly forget the other one is there."

"It should be alright," Edith said, "as long as Mary and Matthew keep as quiet as they can while the rest of us are asleep."

Matthew had to suppress a smirk. Mary glared at Edith with a sour purse of her lips.

"If I recall,  _you_  were the one who didn't get a wink of sleep on her wedding night," she said under her breath.

Somewhere, a whistle blew shrilly. Matthew opened his pocket-watch and glanced quickly at it. "We ought to get on board soon. It's fifteen minutes to noon."

"Right then," Mary said, leading the way to the gangplank. "Come along."

"Is London not exciting enough for her that she wants to leave as quickly as possible?" Anthony asked Matthew.

Matthew lowered his voice so Mary would not risk hearing him. "She claims to know London like the back of her hand. She's an intrepid soul; she wants to see the world, to feel like an important part of history."

"I can understand that longing," Anthony said.

All four moved down the pier, those in the way sidestepping to allow them an unobstructed path. The lower classes gawked at the finery the ladies wore, their travelling clothes more expensive than the houses most lived in. The lady's maids and valets followed with the smaller pieces of luggage under arm. They made their way up the gangplank, rising high above the murky blue water, backs to the crowd being left behind. The steward was prompt to accept their boarding passes and to welcome them to  _Titanic_ , wishing each person in turn a pleasant journey. The servants were ushered towards the staterooms to ready them for their paying inhabitants.

The three couples were then admitted into a grand scene. They had only just boarded  _Titanic_ , and already each person was struck by the craftsmanship and design of the reception room. Everything in sight was pristine and fitting for their class: potted palms sitting on a thick carpet, candelabras fitted with electric light, the smell of new paint and fresh flowers. The large staircase they came to was decorated with gilded balustrades and the walls panels were made of oak. It curved smoothly up and around the decks, winding about in wood, iron and bronze.

"Magnificent," Anthony sighed. "If the rest of the rooms are as beautiful as this, I should wonder if I've gone to heaven."

"I'm starting to doubt if heaven is as extravagant as this," Matthew added.

There were not so many passengers in the reception room now: the ones who had arrived earlier had moved out to the promenade as the crew prepared to put to sea. "Let's find the way to the first-class deck," Edith suggested. "It won't be worth our money if we stay inside for the launch."

An attendant directed them to one of the electric lifts, which took them up to one of the higher decks. They turned out to the first-class promenade, which was already lined with large hats and moustachioed men, waving handkerchiefs to and fro, smiling like royalty. The crew was bustling about, already waiting upon the merry travellers. A high-pitched whistle blew again; some of the older ladies looking about frantically, but the men laughed and reassured them that nothing was going to go wrong.

The Crawleys and Strallans found space at the rail to look out over the dock. The onlookers still waved vigorously and cheered, and flowers of varying colours were being tossed into the water. Directly below, third-class passengers were being hurried through the health inspection and rushed up the gangplank, some dragging young children along. Most were carrying their luggage on their backs in the form of heavy cardboard trunks.

"Look at them all, on the way to a new life," Edith said. "I hope their cabins are not too uncomfortable, or they might regret the journey."

"I hear they are unusually large for third-class staterooms," Matthew said. "Not too many to a room, though. And each cabin has running water and electric lights."

Mary laughed. "Fancy that! Mama and Papa don't even have electric lights installed in their kitchens."

"Which just goes to show how splendid  _Titanic_ is," Matthew said.

On one side of the promenade, a group of musicians played a rousing tune, but they could hardly be heard over the clamour of hundreds of passengers, crowding at the railing to wave a final farewell to Southampton. Seagulls cawed and circled close to the edge. A deafening blow of the ship's horn shook the entire vessel, and  _Titanic_  began to come to life. The crowds shouted and cried even louder as the whistles blew in quick succession, the mooring ropes binding her to the pier were cast away, and the smaller tugboats guiding the colossal steam liner away from the docks advanced forward.

Smoothly,  _Titanic_  slowly manoeuvred away from her berth, steaming forward to the mouth of Southampton harbour. The Crawleys and Strallans, along with the rest of the passengers, waved blissfully to their final sight of England, calling out words of cheer that went unheard. The dock became smaller, those left behind less definite, but there was hardly any sadness at the departure; the journey on the ship of wonders had commenced. Mary's heart felt close to bursting with the pure exhilaration of finally setting off.

They were on their way at last.

Everyone watched as  _Titanic_  surged gently forward, passing by the moored ships at the docks, all dwarfed by her. The propellors began turning, churning up the seabed below and smoke billowed out from the funnels above. The water gushed away from the sides, some stray flowers still floating on the foam. A few of the passengers moved away from the railing to prepare for luncheon, but the Crawleys and Strallans remained standing at the edge, looking down at the parting waves and banners waving from the mainland. The two flags, one of Great Britain and the other of America, were raised and flapped fervently in the wind.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there came sounds like gunshots, and those who heard them started. Some of the officers were shouting commands, but most of the attendants on duty were attempting to once again assure the passengers everything was under control.

"What happened?" Edith asked. "Did something on the ship snap?"

Many observers looked about, and just as they were figuring out what was going on, the attendants started to lead people away from the railing and back inside. No one was saying for certain what was happening, and they were persuading the ladies and gentlemen with more delicate hearts that everything would be in order soon.

"We should go back to the suite and prepare for luncheon," Mary said, as if nothing was amiss.

Although more inclined to see what the matter was, rather than sit down for an uneventful meal, the others followed her back inside. While they were walking down the stairs and to the corridor leading to their staterooms, all of them noticed the ship's strange movements, though they all ascribed that to her moving out of the harbour.

In the adjoining parlour suites, the servants were already unpacking the dozens of suitcases both couples had brought onto the ship (Mary herself had quite a few, including some empty ones for the clothes she planned to purchase in New York). The Crawleys and Strallans separated briefly to go into their respective rooms, agreeing to meet in ten minutes for luncheon.

The first few rooms they had entered had been beautiful, and the parlour suites were equally matched in splendour. Ornamented fireplaces and horsehair chairs in the sitting rooms, lavish beds draped in velvet, showers in the very forward-looking bathrooms. Baskets of fresh roses and carnations sat on the chairs and sofas. Both suites opened out to a single private promenade with wicker lounge chairs and potted ferns. The rooms were opulent even to Mary and Edith, who had grown up in wealth, but on  _Titanic_  the provisions were modern and elegant, a far cry from the traditional style they were attuned to.

"My my, this is quite nice," Mary said, circling and admiring the bedroom.

"Mary, you do not have to be frugal around me," Matthew said. "I know you are as excited as a child at Christmas, to be on the  _Titanic_."

Mary gave him a furtive glance as she removed her coat and leather gloves. "Of course I am excited. Only if I get too enlivened I'll collapse for want of breath, thanks to this wretched corset." She pressed her hand to her side, emphasizing how narrow it was around her. It was not the real reason behind her placidity, but it was a good enough excuse – she grumbled about it enough for even Matthew to understand her abhorrence of the thing.

"You'll need help to remove it later, won't you?" Matthew asked flirtatiously.

Mary knew well how to play this game. "Naturally," she answered. "And I don't care what Edith says, we can make as much noise as we want."

"There are hundreds of people on this ship, darling," reminded Matthew. "It would not be very nice of us to disturb them late at night."

"Then they shall all know how much we love each other by the time the ship docks in America," Mary said.

She would have loved very much to miss luncheon just to have more time alone with Matthew, but Edith came into their suite at that instant to hurry them along. Evidently, the time when they would not be pushed around had not yet arrived.

Lunch took place in the first-class dining saloon, an expansive room with small tables and a peculiarly English mood. A string quintet, situated on a raised platform, played an airy waltz. Sitting in oak chairs underneath a white ceiling, encircled by the elite of both American and English society, the Crawleys and Strallans dined together, in absolute awe of their surroundings, not to mention the well-prepared fare.

"It still seems so unreal to me," Edith said. "To finally be here after weeks of waiting."

"Oh Edith, you're much too sentimental for these sorts of things," Mary remarked.

Edith looked pointedly at Mary. "Well, why shouldn't I be? The very first transatlantic crossing on the largest steam liner every built, and all of us lucky to be part of it."

"It will certainly be something to brag about," Anthony added.

"But we are not the only lucky ones on this ship," Matthew put in. "When you consider the passengers below decks, so many of them must have given up so much to just to be guaranteed safe passing to a new life."

"You sound quite a bit like Tom," Mary observed.

"If that was meant to be an insult, I won't take it that way," Matthew said.

"Not an insult," Mary said, "but it was not a compliment neither."

Anthony took a sip of his iced water. "When will he and Sybil embark?" he asked, hoping to redirect the subject of conversation to something less pejorative.

"We'll reach Cherbourg in the evening, and before tomorrow afternoon we should be in Queenstown," Matthew said.

"Will we be able to see them if they're in second-class?" Edith wondered aloud.

"I should think so, if only for a little while," Matthew said. "We can invite them to eat dinner with us one night."

"That'll be a sight for sure," Mary scoffed, "to see Tom amongst our sort of people. I wonder how he'll behave."

"Like a gentleman," Matthew said resolutely. "You don't have much faith in the poor man. He may be a radical advocate for the downtrodden, but he's no torch-wielding revolutionary, I assure you."

"Besides, Sybil will be there to help him out," Edith said. "She hasn't completely lost her touch with the upper-class."

"I don't know," Mary said skeptically. "It's been a while."

Anthony was looking curiously at a man with a pencil behind his ear and a roll of paper tucked under an arm. "I say, I believe that's the architect himself, Mr Thomas Andrews. The head of the design department of Harland and Wolff's."

"Really?" Edith turned to get a better look at the man.

He was walking quickly through the dining saloon, head swivelling about on neck to peer at the elements of the room, stopping here and there to shake hands with a few admiring passengers. Even with his ship sailing, he seemed so animated in his inspection that he looked still in the midst of preparations. As he had done so with other guests, he approached the table where the Crawleys and Strallans sat, smiling jovially as he extended his hand.

"Excuse me for interrupting your luncheon. Allow me to personally welcome you to  _Titanic._ I am Thomas Andrews."

Mary matched his amiable smile. "Delighted. And may I say that you have created a most extraordinary ship. We were all just saying how magnificent she is. There won't be another like  _Titanic_  for years to come."

Edith coughed into her water glass.  _Leave it to Mary to put on a show_.

Mr Andrews chuckled bashfully. "I am flattered madam, but I am not the one who envisioned her. The idea was Mr J. Ismay's. It is thanks to him that this grand, luxurious steamer is a reality at all."

"But you brought that idea to life," Matthew chimed in. "A conception is all very well on its own, but to work and develop it into reality is just as, if not more, commendable."

"Why, thank you sir," Mr Andrews said, blushing slightly. His eyes brightened. "I will be walking about the ship today, so if there are any facilities you would like to learn more about, I am perfectly happy to enlighten you."

"Perhaps now you could enlighten us on the incident earlier?" Edith asked. "Just after leaving the berth we heard was sounded like cannon-fire. Was it something on the ship?"

Mr Andrews laughed nervously. "No, no. Everything is perfectly fine. We just had a near-incident with the  _New York._  As it happened, the suction from our propellors started to pull her away from her moorings when we passed by. The ropes snapped, which was the 'cannon-fire' you heard."

"Heavens," Mary gasped.

"It was a rather close call," told Mr Andrews. "The ships came very, very close to colliding, but our able Captain Smith saved the day. He simply gave  _Titanic_ a touch ahead on her port engine and spared her a rather nasty crash to her side. The  _New York_  is back where she belongs, and  _Titanic_ is moving once more."

Everybody looked surprised. "I didn't realize we had stopped," Mary said.

"We only just resumed our course a few moments ago," Mr Andrews confirmed. "We were delayed about half an hour, just to make sure everything was as it should be. But now you see the power of  _Titanic:_ in designing her we were aiming not for speed, but stability, to ensure as comfortable a journey as possible. This dining room is located between the second and third funnels, which is the smoothest ride on board."

"Wonderful. So we won't lose our excellent lunch," said Anthony.

Mr Andrews beamed again. "I am very glad you are enjoying yourself. Please, don't let me keep you any longer. I wish you all a pleasant time."

He scuttered off, jotting something down on his paper. The group resumed eating.

"I do hope we didn't accidentally enlarge his ego," Matthew said amusedly.

"He's not an American, so I suppose it's alright," Mary said.

The others laughed weakly. There were plenty of wealthy Americans around them in the dining saloon, although with the hum of chatter as well as the orchestra playing a soft waltz, there might not have been much chance of anyone overhearing.

"We ought to take Mr Andrews up on his offer to learn more about the ship," Anthony said. "She is quite complex inside – I fear I might be lost for the better part of the trip."

"It shouldn't be too difficult to know where first-class passengers are allowed," Edith said. "Certain parts of the ship are open only to us."

"The stairs down to steerage are barred, so you won't chance upon there, thank God," Mary said. "But I would very much like to explore what is offered here as well. After all, we only have a few days to enjoy the pleasures of  _Titanic_ until we reach New York."

"Right you are," Anthony said in agreement. "We must make the most of these days, make them some of the most special of our lifetimes."

Edith raised her glass, and everyone followed suit. "To a happy voyage."

"To a happy voyage," echoed the rest.

They clinked their glasses together, the crystal pinging like tiny bells of ice. Underneath their feet,  _Titanic_  pursued her course, serenely steaming across the English channel.

 

* * *

 

 _Titanic_  arrived in Cherbourg, France just after six that evening. The sun was already half hidden under the horizon, and a strong wind churned the waves below (though it was barely felt onboard). As their husbands took a look at the lounge and smoking room, Edith and Mary stood in the reception room, flanked by other first-class guests, surveying the new passengers coming aboard. They were much like those already on board: high society, made of money, decked in the latest fashions. The Americans were particularly easy to pick out – it appeared that lipstick was a recent but popular vogue for them. Mary, being an established figure in London society, recognized a number of faces, some disdainfully.

"I see Lady Rothes did make it after all. Oh, and look, there's J.J. Astor." Mary pointed to a somewhat aged man, accompanied by a girl a few years younger than Sybil. "His new wife of course, Madeleine. They've been travelling through Egypt and Europe for the past few months."

"His wife?" Edith repeated in disbelief. "She hardly looks old enough to be married."

"The States are still reeling from the scandal," Mary said in hushed tones. "You can see she's  _not_   _well_ , obviously trying to conceal it with that absurd coat. But if I'm not mistaken, Mr Astor is one of the richest men in America, possibly even the wealthiest man on this ship."

"Goodness. Perhaps he should have spent some of his finances on common sense. Marrying someone who looks like she hasn't had her debut!" Edith said scornfully.

"It  _is_  a surprise that they're putting themselves back in public eye – though it may be that they were never out of it in the first place," Mary said. "That woman with the large hat behind them is Margaret Brown. Grandmama knows her. She's of new money, naturally."

"What from?" asked Edith.

"Gold or something. All thanks to her husband, of course. They've been separate for some time, though," Mary explained. "She is one of the few who hasn't forsaken the Astors."

Edith looked at Mary incredulously. "How do you so much about all these people? I know you haven't met them  _all,_ let alone exchange life stories with each other."

Mary smiled smugly. "Edith dear, if you didn't live in the middle of nowhere, you would know quite a few of them as well."

Edith was not affronted in the least, although Mary's jibe did irk her. "Anthony and I do not live under a rock. We're perfectly content to live in the country. Anthony enjoys the quiet life."

"Don't get me wrong, darling, I'm glad you and Anthony are happy," Mary said. "It's just that you seem so far away from the rest of the world you might not know a war was on until halfway through it."

"They deliver the paper promptly to Loxley each day, thank you," Edith retorted.

They continued to watch the influx of new arrivals until the last tender transporting them from the dock steered away from  _Titanic_. A bugle sounded from somewhere on the deck to announce dinner, and some retreated to their cabins to freshen up before another fine meal. Dinner would be in a short while, but happily for them, they were not expected to change on this first night. Nevertheless, both Mary and Edith decided to retreat back to their suites to make an appropriate toilette.

"When did you last see Mama and Papa?" Edith asked Mary.

"Not since New Year's," Mary replied. "I suppose  _you_  see them often."

"Not so often as you think," Edith corrected. "Anthony and I saw them last for luncheon two weeks ago."

"They're looking well still?" Mary asked.

"Yes. They wish us all a good journey."

"Of course they do." Mary marched up the artisan-crafted stairs. "What about Granny – did she need smelling salts when she heard all about  _Titanic_ 's modern facilities?"

Edith shook her head. "She didn't go  _that_  far, but … she has her suspicions, to be sure."

"Suspicions? Of what?"

"You know Granny. Anything that wasn't around for fifty years when she was born is too 'progressive' and 'dangerous.' She said, for all of the lavishness and splendour advertised about  _Titanic,_  there has to be something unstable that could spell trouble for the entire ship."

"Good God," Mary remarked. "Then again, she believes she'll be smothered by vapours if electric lights are installed in the dower house."

"But Granny does send her love as well. She wants us to send a telegram when we've arrived in New York," Edith went on.

"We'll send her a gift from there," Mary decided. "Preferably a very American one."

Edith grinned, imagining the look on Granny's face upon receiving such a present.

Since Mary and Matthew lived in London, and Sybil in Dublin with Tom, it was Edith who called on her parents and her grandmother from time to time to make sure they were not too lonely (or that was the reasoning). In that way, she still felt bound to her old life, even when she was growing used to managing her own small household. Sometimes, on bad days, she thought it rather selfish that Mary had decided to pack her things and live farther away, but could she be blamed? The Yorkshire country was not a singularly exciting place, and Edith more often than not wondered what it was like to have a day when she was exhausted, but from activity rather than from boredom.

Still, she had chosen that life, and she was content with Anthony at Loxley. That life suited them, even if it was nearly identical to her prior livelihood. Edith knew how to make her own fun, and she had her own small circle of friends that she could count on for company. Since announcing her passage on  _Titanic_ , she had been the envy of many women, and to be the one that people were jealous of rather than the contrary had given her great satisfaction.

She asked after a short pause, "Does it not bother you that you are so far away from home nowadays?"

Mary repressed the urge to roll her eyes at Edith. "My home is in London now. And I'm not as bothered as  _you_  might be. I love my life as it is. Frankly, I'm happier than I've ever been before."

After a beat of silence, she added, "I do miss the people at Downton, of course. And there are times when I do long for Yorkshire, but that's usually when the city smoulder gets too much for me. But I'm not homesick in the slightest."

"Should I assume that Matthew is just as happy as you are?" Edith asked.

"Do you even have to ask?" Mary said. "The city suits him better than the country – he was born in Manchester, after all. Neither of us was going to prefer Downton as a permanent home."

"I doubt any of us would have lived at Downton forever," Edith admitted. "Sybil would never remain and live like a proper society lady – especially after meeting Tom."

"We've all gone our separate paths," Mary said. "But we'll be together again very soon."

Edith smirked, thinking that she had caught Mary displaying some oft-hidden sisterly love. "You almost sound excited."

"Certainly I'm excited to see Sybil and Tom again," Mary said, "I'm always more sentimental than I'm supposed to let on, that's all."

"Aha! So the cold and callous Lady Mary reveals that she  _does_  have a heart," Edith exclaimed.

Mary narrowed her eyes. "If you choose to keep going with this, I won't sit next to you tonight as I intended to," she riposted.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was a more casual affair than the other nights were planned to be, but it was, after all, a more hectic day than would be usual. After a many-course meal and subsequent liqueurs and coffee, exhaustion quickly closed in around the first-class. Most retreated to their cabins or suites afterwards, weary from the excitement of the first day aboard  _Titanic._ The stars were already glinting brightly tonight, the only light between the dark sea and the night sky. The water was calm and  _Titanic_  made her course across the Channel again smoothly, almost as if it was gliding through the air.

After the hustle and bustle of the day, after the constant hubbub of activity, Mary realized just how pleasant the silence inside the suite bedroom was. All she could hear was the gentle roll of the waves far below and Matthew's soft breathing next to her. Such quietude was striking to her, she who was used to a turbulent London life; she nevertheless felt perfectly at home, with her loving husband in bed next to her and her family nearly reunited.

And yet … something seemed ominous. Mary could not place why she had such an adverse impression. She only felt that, somehow, there was something about the journey to make her nervous. It was keeping her awake, blinking up at the ceiling of the dark suite, wondering just  _why_  she was having such ill thoughts.

Was it because of the incident with the other ship in Southampton that all but resulted in a collision? Her grandmother's obsolete views on modern technology? Surely the ship was strong enough to withstand most damages, and everything onboard was deemed safe for maritime voyages. So why was she lying awake, conjuring up ridiculous notions that the trip would not go as smoothly as the very ship skimming across the sea?

"Mary?" Matthew's voice was muffled against the pillow.

"What is it, darling?" Mary answered softly.

"I was going to ask  _you_  that." Matthew lifted his head. "What's wrong? Can you not sleep?"

Mary fingered the ribbon tied at the end of her single braid. "I'm just … thinking."

"About … ?"

"I'm not exactly sure."

Matthew gave a half-suppressed laugh.

"I know that it sounds silly," Mary said, "but to be honest – no, I probably am being rather silly."

"Tell me," Matthew said. His eyes conveyed concern.

Mary searched in her head for the right way to say what she wanted. It was harder to speak when it about what was happening in her mind.

"It's just that … for all this talk about perfection, I can't help but wonder that something might go awry. I don't know if it's big or small, but I feel it _will_  happen."

She turned to look at Matthew. "You'll say I'm acting paranoid."

"Not paranoid," he said, "just wrong."

"I'm glad you're on my side for this," Mary said cynically.

"Listen to me," Matthew said with all seriousness. "What is the likelihood of anything bad happening? Moreover, what are the odds of any problem not being solved in the blink of an eye? Just this morning we avoided an accident with that other ship. This crew is experienced and the ship is perfectly sound."

"I know it is," Mary said. "I've heard it all so many times. And yet … I've still got this feeling of nervousness. I know shouldn't have it, and I don't want it." She rubbed her face. "Perhaps I'm simply overtired. My imagination is running wild, that's all."

"Mary …" Matthew said, his fingers brushing against her hand, "if you are worried about something, you mustn't hide it from me. But you must remember that the worst scenarios almost never come to pass. Don't trouble yourself by thinking otherwise. We're already on the ship; we must enjoy the journey while it lasts."

Mary looked over at her husband. She could not tell if her fears were completely assuaged, but just hearing him comfort her was enough to soothe her for now. Whatever would she do without him? She felt at ease now: in London, he was the last thing to see before falling asleep and the first thing upon waking up, and it would be the same on  _Titanic_. No matter where they were, that was all that she needed to make her feel at home.

She moved closer to him, and he put his arm around her. She positioned her head comfortably against his shoulder, slender fingers intertwining around his like she would never let go. This was how she always wanted to be – close enough to him to feel his heart beat, which she always imagined to pulse in syncopation with her own.

"I was stupid to worry," Mary murmured. "It doesn't matter anymore. I feel quite safe in your arms now."

"We're safe when we're together," Matthew said. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "And if anything  _does_  happen, that's how we'll stay," he promised.

"Why should it be any other way?" Mary asked.

She let Matthew kiss her again, this time on her lips, and at once the chill on her skin disappeared. Her eyes closed languidly, letting her sense of touch convince her that he was still beside her. She lay her head into the crook of his neck, and soon her worries were forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *quietly sobbing*
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. The near-collision between the RMS Titanic and the SS City of New York did happen moments after Titanic left her berth. The suction effect caused by Titanic's propellers tore the hawsers from their moorings. Captain Edward Smith put the port propeller in reverse while a tugboat took ahold of the New York. According to reports, the two ships were four feet away from crashing into each other. It's something that many people forget occurred because it was omitted from the 1997 movie, and of course it was overshadowed by the real tragedy. Unfortunate to think about, it was the closest thing that Titanic ever got to something called New York.
> 
> 2\. Queenstown is the old name for Cóbh.
> 
> 3\. The Astors, Margaret Brown (the Unsinkable Molly Brown), the Countess of Rothes, and Thomas Andrews were all real people, if you recall from the 1997 film. J.J. Astor was the richest man on Titanic, and his young wife Madeleine was five-months pregnant at the time. Margaret Brown was likely never referred to as 'Molly' during her lifetime; she would have been called Maggie by friends.


	2. On the Floating Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have stuck with this story – welcome back! For all the S/T shippers (teehee) they will be making their entrance in this chapter. Prepare yourselves for an appetizers of angst, some humour, and a little bit of fluffiness!
> 
> As far as I can tell, the first few chapters will be dialogue heavy, but after the *great event* happens the real action will start. I find it very difficult to write interactions between characters when nothing is really happening; therefore, there is a lot of discussion about the Titanic. I'm sorry if it seems boring, but in doing research, I found a few sources that said the amenities of the Titanic was the hot topic for conversation amongst passengers. And as I said before, I am trying to make this fic as firmly-based in history as possible, so go ahead and treat it as a learning experience! (just don't use me as a resource for a paper, because that would be rather silly).
> 
> If there's something irksome about the fic that you want my attention drawn to, don't hesitate to PM me about it. I'll look into it. I want this fic to be a success, so reader reviews are greatly appreciated!

_April 11 – Irish Sea_

 

_Titanic_ made good speed through the night, and by mid morning she was steaming within sight of the south coast of Ireland. A light wind grew brisker the closer she made to shore, currently only a thin grey line against the horizon. Soon the high granite cliffs would be seen more clearly, in select places graced by a lonely crumbling castle or single tower. Later, the harbour of Queenstown would play host to  _Titanic_  for a short while, her last stop before proceeding across the Atlantic to New York.

Despite the sea air blowing about, the Crawleys and Strallans enjoyed a generous breakfast together on their private promenade deck. They dined on fresh fruit, grilled ham and sausages, eggs, and scones with blackcurrant conserves. Two stewards waited on them. The morning was quite chilly, though everyone was able to tolerate it as long as they wore warmer garments and the tea was kept hot.

"I never believed I could have such a peaceful sleep on a steam liner," Edith told everybody. "I hardly noticed the engines."

"That alone, I'm sure, will make  _Titanic_  more attractive to travellers than she already is," Anthony said.

"It doesn't seem like we're going very fast, though," Mary said. Despite the breeze blowing about and making the corners of her napkin flap up and down, the ship could only be moving with at most a moderate speed.

Matthew gave his wife a look that, had she caught it, would have warned her not to keep being so blasé. "We won't go full speed until we've left Ireland, of course. And  _Titanic_ 's no canoe – she'll reach up to twenty-four knots on the open sea."

"The Cunard liners can go twenty-seven or twenty-eight knots," Mary countered. Not that she knew exactly what a knot was.

"They're  _supposed_  to; they're built that way," Edith said. "But I've never heard of anyone having a restful night on one of them."

Anthony smiled over the rim of his teacup. Witnessing the banter between Edith and Mary was a bit like watching a play, only now Edith was getting a few good lines herself.

"So, I assume you ladies took some time to explore the ship yesterday?" he asked.

"We did, and I truly believe that  _Titanic_ 's interior is more impressive than her structure," Edith said. Her eyes brightened like a child's at the reminiscence. "It's like a city, really. We saw the Turkish baths on F deck – it's like something out of  _Arabian Nights_ , with blue and green tiles and a Cairo curtain over the portholes. And the lights are like old lanterns hanging from the ceiling."

"The poor stewardess inside was still cleaning up from when the workmen were putting the finishing touches on in Southampton," Mary remembered. "But aside from that, it is a striking room. Definitely out of a story-book."

Edith took another sip of tea. "We then went to see the swimming pool on the same deck, but they had only filled it up about halfway at the time. It doesn't look like anything too grand, compared to the baths—"

"It's really just a large saltwater tank," Mary interjected.

"—but it's a unique facility all the same. There's only one other swimming bath on a steam liner and that's on the  _Olympic_ , the sister ship."

"Edith, you certainly have done your research," Anthony said proudly. "You're perhaps just as much an expert on  _Titanic_  as Thomas Andrews is."

"Well, it has been the only thing I've been able to think about for a long time," Edith conceded. "Everything about it is so remarkable."

"I'm not so inclined to call a half-empty tub of saltwater 'remarkable,'" Mary said. "However, we took a lovely tea in the lounge and that was such an exquisite room. Made me finally realize that the drawing room at Downton is outdated by at least two centuries."

She and Edith sniggered. The old-world atmosphere of Downton was something both of them poured scorn on.

Matthew asked, "What exactly makes you say that?"

Mary pretended to look pensive. "Oh, where do I begin? First, the style is French, so it is ornate, but unlike the old drawing room it's not fussy. The boiseries are a far sight more refined than that ludicrous silk wallpaper. The company is a good deal better too offhand."

Matthew's expression was one of feigned offense, an obvious attempt to resemble Mary's papa. "Such indignity, and to your own family."

Mary slapped him lightly on the wrist. "The only indignity being committed is that of you making yourself look like a fool."

Had they been alone, Matthew would have taken the opportunity to begin shamelessly toying with Mary – and she was well aware that that what she had said would have lead him to it. It happened many a time at their home in London, in every place possible: the dining room, drawing room, garden, bedroom. Matthew figured that Mary only said such things to spur him to begin their little games, but he didn't mind it a bit, even when she threw half-hearted jibes at him. At the moment, both were trying to imagine what sort of fun they could be having with the concept of 'indignity' without letting it show.

"There's the gymnasium onboard as well," Anthony mentioned. "Did you ladies see that?"

"We did, but only from the outside," Edith said. "The men use it in the afternoon, and the women in the morning. "

"To be perfectly frank, I question the need for a gymnasium on a ship this size," Mary said. "Walking around the decks is enough exercise for me."

"And you said so yourself the machines in their look like they could snap your fingers off if you weren't careful," Edith said.

This time, Mary did not laugh. Matthew and Anthony shared a quizzical look, both men wondering just how bizarre those new machines were.

"White Star admittedly enjoys outdoing itself in terms of luxury," Matthew said. "I would not be surprised if  _Titanic_  has her own gold mine somewhere."

"I should think some of the Americans brought their own," Mary quipped.

The pattern of the wind changed as  _Titanic_  steered gradually right; it made very little disturbance on the wicker table nonetheless. "We're nearing land," Edith discerned.

"Nearer to Ireland, nearer to the Bransons," Mary said.

Shortly, the stewards cleared away the breakfast dishes, and everyone prepared themselves for the day's pursuits. Until the air grew warmer no one planned to take a stroll outside, so for the time being they lingered in the enclosed promenade, which afforded them a fine view of the sea. The deck was also furnished with wooden deck chairs, which Anthony and Edith took the liberty of occupying a couple. Meanwhile, Mary and Matthew wandered along the walkway, heads turned outward towards the approaching landfall. It was not long before the romantic coves and pastures of Ireland could be seen, coupled with tall lighthouses and the remnants of a fairy-tale world. The passengers who had never before seen it stood idle by the windows and looked out with starry-eyed expressions.

"It seems like a wonderland from afar, but once you're in the city you're reminded of a Dickens novel," Mary noted.

"Surely it can't be as bad as all that," Matthew said. "From the letters Sybil wrote to you it sounds like she and Tom have a stable life."

"By Dublin standards, which is hardly a comfortable place to live," Mary said trenchantly. Her sigh was rather like a grumble. "Sometimes I'm afraid she's purposefully keeping quiet about any troubles she and Tom might be having."

Matthew frowned. "Do you mean troubles between the two of them? Or in Dublin?"

"I desperately hope not the former. The latter, however, is what I am concerned about."

"What is it that worries you so?"

Mary's voice was soft, as if she did not want anyone else to hear her being so soft-hearted. "Nothing in particular … but I feel like there's a storm coming, one that will alter their lives and not necessarily for the better. You know I don't look into such things so closely, but I don't want them getting hurt by whatever happens. You should have seen how happy they were at the wedding – nothing should tear their kind of love apart."

Her distress was impressed on Matthew too, but like her disquiet about  _Titanic_  the previous night, what reality was it based in? There was always dissent in Dublin, especially in regards to the social order, but nothing had come of it save for unruliness on the parts of drunken thugs. On top of that, Sybil and Tom, he could tell, were better at navigating obstacles than the officers that were steering the ship across the seas.

"If you suspect Sybil is holding something back, then ask her," he advised Mary.

Mary was dubious. "She might not say anything."

"Then there might not be anything to say."

Mary considered this: Sybil was certainly capable of keeping secrets, but much time had passed since she had hidden a skeleton in the cupboard. Would she, now a married woman, be more open to disclosing any doubts or difficulties, or would she force a smile and remain tight-lipped to any inquiries? It was odd for Mary not to know how her own sister might act – she had always prided herself on knowing both Edith and Sybil better than even their spouses, but perhaps that no longer held true. It would be harder to talk now that each person's life had so drastically changed.

"Very well," Mary said after thinking, "I'll talk to her, but not today. I don't wish to responsible for making her upset on the first night of their holiday."

"I'm sure it would take more than a well-meaning interrogation to rip your familial bond asunder."

Mary had to wonder why Matthew always painted a more congenial portrait of her family than was true to life.

They had reached the end of the enclosed area; they turned around and walked back the other way. Edith and Anthony were still lounging on their deck chairs. Anthony's hands were folded over his stomach and his eyes were closed.

"Falling asleep again so early in the morning, I see," Mary teased.

"Not at all. I'm merely using my other senses to experience the journey," Anthony returned. "You ought to try it sometime; it's quite relaxing."

Edith giggled. "If you had your way you'd stay that way all week."

"Yes I would," Anthony said, eyes still closed.

"I'm glad he's already found his perfect spot on the ship," Mary said.

"If he goes missing, we'll know where to find him," Matthew added.

Anthony's left eye opened to peer at them. "I thought I made it clear that I could still hear all of you."

"We do know that," Edith said. "It simply doesn't make a difference to any of us."

Anthony chuckled. "Now I  _am_  starting to wonder if  _Titanic_  is big enough for all of us."

 

* * *

 

_Titanic_  made it to Queenstown at midday. The wind was blowing harder, nearly a squall, and most passengers remained inside, looking out at the harbour through potholes in public rooms. Mary and Edith were among the few who were braving the crisp weather, watching for a possible glimpse of their sister. A great many on land had gathered to watch the massive steamer be guided into Queenstown, standing at the dock and on other ships, poking their heads out of windows lined at the waterfront and waving from the streets behind. It was an unusually vast crowd there, just as there was at Southampton and Cherbourg, with the same fussing of tags and hurried transport of passengers. The confusion was even greater with hundreds of men, women, and children bound for steerage, crying out in curious intonations and languages, some smiling and others fearful of the huge iron ship.

Somewhere in the crowd, the Bransons were standing and looking up in awe at  _Titanic,_ filled with the same amazement that had transfixed their relations at Southampton.

It hardly mattered that they were travelling second-class – it might not be close to the grand luxury that the Crawleys and Strallans could bear the expense of, but it would afford them decent comfort. Upon hearing that the Bransons had been invited to journey to America via  _Titanic,_ Sybil's papa had insisted that they take the trip; and rather uncharacteristic of him, he sent them a good amount of the fare for second-class tickets so that money would not serve as an excuse for them missing out. Even so, a large portion of what they had saved up went to the rest of the cost, and there was a little bit more to sacrifice to take the train down to Queenstown. Yet neither Sybil nor Tom held doubts that their hard-earned money was being exhausted for a poor reason – this would be not only a once-in-a-lifetime journey for them, but perhaps the only one they ever took.

It seemed a great many passengers were bound for steerage, accounting for the heavy trunks on their backs and drab attire. Some did not have much to carry at all. Most of the migrants were queued in a jumbled line, going through the rushed health inspection and having their papers scrutinized for tell-tale signs of counterfeit. Only afterwards would they be waved leave to continue. Just as at Cherbourg, the massive ship was too large to dock within the harbour, and so two tenders conveyed the new passengers from the pier. All aboard craned their necks and turned their heads upwards to stare at, what must have seemed to many of them, a miracle.

"Look at them all," Edith said in a romantic tone. "Going to a new world, to work and live with God-knows-what kind of people. It must be thrilling and frightening all at once."

She realized that she was clenching her jaw due to the cold and rubbed a gloved finger where it was sore. They had been standing outside for close to an hour, and the crispness was finally taking its toll. A few minutes more and she would have to retreat indoors to wait instead.

"Really Edith, you sound positively ridiculous," Mary said, still scanning the tenders down below. One was unloading people at the third class entrance – no need to look there.

"Perhaps I do sound absurd, but it is true," Edith retorted. "Those people must have given up so much just for a ticket. They're leaving their friends and family behind, and they may never come back at all. You don't know what it's like to give up your whole world like they have."

"Neither do you, for that matter," Mary answered. "Wait—!" she said, interrupting herself. "I think that's her!"

Both she and Edith leaned against the railing, squinting far below. The second tender was advancing toward Titanic, and standing at the bow was a woman wearing dark traveling garb and a blue hat, looking up at the massive ship.

"I do believe that's Sybil!" Edith exclaimed.

She wanted to be like the children standing on the iron bars, leaning with their stomachs across the railing and waving and crying greetings to the new arrivals. It had seemed like ages since anyone saw Sybil, and of course her husband. He was distinguishable by his soft felt sepia-tinged hat, only slightly smarter than the countless flat caps on the heads of old and young men.

"Do you think they will let us greet her?" she asked. The restrictions between even first and second class were well enforced.

"I don't see why not. We're her sisters – it would be uncouth of them to forbid us to see her for at least a few minutes."

They went back inside. Having been on the ship for only twenty-four hours, making their way around the many large rooms and narrow corridors was still a task. Before either of them managed to get lost, Mary resolved to ask an attendant on the whereabouts of the second-class entrance.

"Ma'am, what business could you possibly have with second-class?" the haughty steward quickly answered with.

Mary arched her eyebrows, astonished at the steward's cheek. "If you  _really_   _must_  know, our sister is a second-class passenger. We would very much like to be there to welcome her and her husband."

"Your sister?" the steward repeated in incredulity.

" _Yes_ ," Mary accentuated. Edith nodded behind her.

The steward stuttered. "I – w-well I – w-wasn't aware that your –  _your_ sister would be en-entering through the – s-second class—"

Mary rolled her eyes and scoffed. "I cannot believe this. Do I have to explain it all to you?"

The steward turned pink in the face and seemed to shrivel under Mary's glare.

"It is a rather long story," Edith muttered.

"W-well ma'am I – didn't think – know that—"

"Of course you didn't," Mary said, in exactly the sort of tone that implied that he should. "But it is the truth: Miss Sybil Branson and her husband Tom Branson do not live in England, they live in Dublin, and they have purchased second-class tickets in view of their current economy."

She leaned closer to the harassed steward and spoke slower. "Now will you kindly show us where we may greet them, preferably today?"

The steward stood rigid, as if still indecisive as to what he was supposed to do. Mary looked as if to wonder how a bungling man could have been employed by the White Star Line.

"I'll fetch someone to escort you down," the steward said finally. He scurried away, the back of his neck bright red.

Mary and Edith sighed, both put out and amused. "This is the only time I've felt society is much too strict on division," Mary said.

"It was to be expected," Edith told her. "How many other first-class passengers personally know someone in second?"

"How many other servants have the gall to be impertinent to the people who are paying them?" Mary sniffed.

Another steward, one who thankfully asked no questions, came by within a moment to usher them down to the second-class reception room. It was a busy place, most carrying smaller cases in both hands, clustering together to find their cabins. There were clergymen, professors, tourists, people traveling to speaking events, families looking to have an adventure in America, couples on honeymoons … and so many could be heard speaking about how extravagant their side of the ship seemed. Mary and Edith too were impressed at the state of the area. It was not evenly matched to the grandeur of the first-class decks, but it was far more elegant than most second-class passengers might be used to.

Mary scanned the incoming crowd, looking for familiar faces. "Do you think Tom will faint from the comfort he'll be surrounded by for the next week? Or will he declare rebellion against unnecessary indulgence?"

"He ought to be proud of it. The ship  _was_  built in Ireland," Edith claimed. "Besides, he won't say a rude word about anything. You shun your own brother-in-law without much to substantiate your judgement."

Mary exhaled, sullen but in full awareness that she had been wrong to speak. "You're right – I am being rather rude, but I don't feel like I can help it. It confuses me: he used to talk so much about 'English oppression' and 'socialism' that my ears are still ringing with it, and then he goes and marries Sybil, an English lady no less!"

"It  _is_  peculiar, but we can't do anything about it, and there's no use pretending otherwise." Edith looked among the throng of ordinary people. "And when you really consider it, all that matters is that they're happy together, no matter what class they belong to. Things are changing."

"Not fast enough for them," Mary said grimly.

In the middle of her sentence, she caught sight of a blue hat, and she had little doubt as to who it was. "Sybil!" she called out.

As soon as she spoke aloud the name, the face to match it turned to look around. Sybil found where Mary and Edith were standing, and she nudged Tom's arm to get his attention. They pushed their way through the sea of bustling passengers, reaching the other Crawley girls with wide smiles.

"Hello darling," Mary said, meeting Sybil with an embrace. "How lovely to see you at last."

"Oh Mary, it's been so long," Sybil said joyfully. "And Edith – I can't believe it, we're all together again!"

Mary regarded Tom politely. "It's lovely to see you as well, Tom."

Tom's eyes darted quickly from Mary to Edith and then to the space between them; he seemed like a daunted child. It was obvious that, though he was on more familiar terms with Sybil's sisters now, their wealth and stature still cowed him. On every occasion that he saw them, dressed like royalty and speaking with lofty elocution, he could not help but feel like a lowbrow proletarian. He smiled nervously: what did they think of him even now? He knew they accepted him as a brother-in-law, but as a friend? – he doubted that.

"It's good to see you again," he said, with as much grace as he could affect.

Sybil touched Tom's arm in reassurance. There was a quiet rebel in him, and it was hard to look at any aristocrat in the eye without remembering the stark differences between the classes.

"We've been up since seven this morning preparing for  _Titanic_ ," she said. "We had a bit of confusion with the luggage, but it's all settled now."

"Are you certain you have everything?" Mary asked.

Sybil nodded. "Yes. We managed to have the big trunk sent up before us, and the rest is with us, as you can see."

"Good. You should go to your stateroom and freshen up," Mary said. "Go have luncheon and explore the ship."

"Are we really going to part ways so soon after coming together again?" Sybil groaned. "It's been so long, and so much has happened since we last saw each other."

Mary looked behind Sybil's shoulder at the activity in the hall. There was still quite a bit of jostling of people, luggage and mail bags. "It's much too busy here to properly catch up."

"We can talk more someplace else," Edith added.

Sybil sighed. "Alright. Tell Matthew and Anthony that we look forward to meeting them again."

"Of course," Mary said. "We'll see you soon."

Sybil and Tom disappeared back through the crowd to get to their stateroom. Mary and Edith hurried back to the stairs from where they entered to avoid being swept away by the passengers coming in from the most recent tender.

"She seems so different now," Edith murmured. "It  _is_  hard to believe that she's our sister."

"A working life has changed her," Mary agreed. "I can't imagine that you don't remain the person you were before after you become a nurse." She shook her head, aghast at her own words. "We shouldn't talk like this. She is still our sister, no matter how she chooses to live her life."

Edith nodded, but she continued, "It must be so awkward, for her and Tom. She gave up the world that she was brought up in, and now she's back into something that resembles it."

"If she was made uneasy by comfort and self-indulgence, she wouldn't be here in the first place," Mary made clear. "As for Tom, he'll have to grin and bear it for a few days. I highly doubt it will kill him."

 

* * *

 

Sybil opened the door to their stateroom and moved to turn the light on; she realized a second later that it was already on. She was so used to coming home to a dark flat that had only one electric lightbulb. She helped Tom pull their suitcases into the room, her ankle bumping against the big trunk that was waiting for them against the wall. As soon as he was over the threshold, Tom shut the door, cutting off the clamour still happening in the corridor as other families settled into their cabins.

"Peace at last," he sighed, leaning against the moulding.

Some smashed against the other side of the door. Tom whirled around and threw it open; he caught a glimpse of an excitable young child practically bounding off the walls.

Sybil giggled. "Not quite."

Tom groaned, then shared her laugh. "If the lad isn't careful he'll overturn the ship before we've made it out to sea."

"That would put a proper damper on the voyage," Sybil said.

She turned around and gaped at the stateroom. "Crikey! This – this is so lovely!" She sat down on one of the berths, hands running across the bed covers. "I didn't think the second-class rooms would be so cozy."

Tom peered about as well, his eyes running across everything from the hat hooks to the wood the berths were made of. "Are you sure we weren't by accident placed in a first-class cabin?"

"I doubt it. But if  _our_  room is as nice as this, I wonder what those ones are like," Sybil said.

"Like a king's palace, I imagine," Tom said, not holding back the scepticism his tone usually held when talking about royalty.

Sybil looked at Tom disappointedly. "Tom please, don't be that way, not now when we're finally on the ship."

Tom sat on the settee across from her. "I'm sorry Sybil, really, but—"

"I know what you're thinking," Sybil interrupted. "I understand how strange it must be for you – it's strange for me as well: being on holiday and not having to work nearly every day."

"What I'm thinking has little to do with you and me," Tom said.

Sybil furrowed her brow. "What, then?"

Tom stood up, running his hands across the dressing table between the beds and the settee. "You saw all those people lined up for steerage outside."

"Of course I did," Sybil affirmed, foreseeing where Tom was going with his train of thought.

"Now that I'm seeing how nice  _our_  quarters are, I'm wondering how  _theirs_ will be," he said. "All those people, families with children – what sort of accommodations are they going to live in for the next few days? I've yet to see them, but I swear by the Virgin they won't be close to what first-class or even second-class rooms are like."

Sybil was all too familiar with this concern of Tom. She shared it too, just not with Titanic. "It can't be so bad as you might think. How many times have we read that the third-class areas are better than on other ships? The cabins are berths like ours, and they have their own dining room and decks—"

"Or so the White Star says," Tom cut in. "Who's to say that they aren't packing them together like cattle underneath our feet? How do we know they aren't only being fed cabin biscuits and gruel?"

"Tom!" Sybil exclaimed. "If you really thought that Titanic could be that primitive, you would not have agreed to sacrifice our savings for tickets. You know better than to think that they'd treat people that way, even when they aren't paying hundreds of pounds or have a great business attached to their name."

"I do know that," Tom insisted. "I know steerage conditions have improved in the past few years. But – and I don't mean any offence to you or them – but when I saw your sisters, I forgot all of that. I remembered how different they are to the rest of the world … how different their lives are from  _ours_. They're the ruling class, and we're the repressed."

At first, Sybil did not try to say anything to change his tune. That was his attitude towards the sort of people she had once lived among. Nothing that he said was directed towards her – she had never seen herself as that type of person – but her family was among those he referred to as "oppressive people" and he never denied that, although being related to them now, he still viewed them as such. To sway his opinion might be harder than managing to tip the  _Titanic_  over on her side.

She reached across the space between them and clasped his hand. She looked him square in the eye as she told him, "This voyage that we're taking is not about class. It's not about basking in the wealth of  _Titanic_. It's about my family, your friends, all reuniting on a ship that will take us all to see America. I'm not trying to belittle the way you are seeing things, but I'm telling you that this is neither the time nor place to start an argument against the system that's in place."

"Are you saying I should suppress my revolutionary instincts?" Tom asked.

"No. I just want to make things easier for you," Sybil said.

Tom slowly smiled, hearing the wisdom of Sybil's words. Too right she was – why did he never how much of a fool he was until she pointed it out?

He rose from the settee and planted a soft kiss on Sybil's cheek. He was about to withdraw, thinking that he ought to start unpacking, but she turned her head so that their lips met. She put her arms around him and held him close, so that she could feel his heartbeat as well as her own.

"Which side are we on?" Sybil arbitrarily asked.

"The starboard side, I think," Tom answered.

Sybil smiled glowingly. "So does that mean we'll be able to see the stars every night?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, of course."

"When I'm here, every night, I want to stand up on the deck and look at all the stars in the sky. There are too many lights in the city to see them clearly."

"This ship has as many electric lights as any city, I'll bet."

"I'm sure I'll see them better at sea than any place on land."

From afar, the ship's horn sounded. "She's leaving," Sybil ascertained. "Wouldn't you like to go see a last glimpse of your home?"

"My home is wherever you are,  _a_ _mhuirnín_ ," Tom said, calling her the name he said to her every day since they had been married. Sybil loved the word; she could not speak a comprehensible sentence in Irish to save her life, but that word sounded like a second name, belonging only to her.

Together, they headed back out to the hectic corridor, hardly settled down in the few minutes they had been in their stateroom. There was a single lift to take them up to the deck where they might watch  _Titanic_  depart from the harbour. There were quite a few second-class passengers among them, but below, on the poop deck, the third-class was huddled close together. The women were wrapped in shawls against the chilly air, and the men were waving their flat caps in a farewell gesture. It was a bit warmer than it had been in the morning, but the brisk wind was enough to make one without a coat shiver.

"It's awfully dispiriting to think," Tom said, "that this might be their last view of their home. I doubt most, if not all, have the means to travel back, even if they do manage to make a decent living in America."

Sybil remembered, from a few years back, that immigrants, particularly Irishmen, were too often turned away by employers being given the simple excuse of "we don't take Irish!" Had that attitude changed at all since then? If the people below decks were sailing to a country that had rejected families in the past, did they believe that they had a better chance now, in 1912?

They had hope, at least, enough hope to give them the courage to leave home behind in search of a better one. That had been Sybil's mentality when she had left comfort and money for a life with the man she loved.

The whistles gave a long blast, signaling the smaller craft nearby to stand clear. The gangplanks were drawn away, lines were cast off, and  _Titanic_  slowly moved away from Cork harbour. Fighting against the wind knotting their hair and biting their faces, Sybil and Tom watched as the ship steamed beyond the headland, the green coastline of their home grow thinner and thinner, the cawing of seagulls becoming less raucous by the minute. Sybil found it hard to keep her eyes open, what with the sea wind stinging like salt water and forming tears. She rubbed her face with her gloved fist.

"Ah now, don't cry," Tom said, putting his arm around her. "We'll be back before long. She'll still be here, same as ever."

"I'm not crying because of that!" Sybil declared. "It's the sea air. I forgot how irritating it is."

"You'll have to get used to it quickly. This is how it'll be for the next few days."

As  _Titanic_  picked up speed, Sybil turned away from the coastline to look out at the open sea. She stood at the rail, leaning towards the stern pointing outward toward the horizon. The expanse of water as far as the eye could see sent a thrill through her, a sensation of adventure mixed with danger. They would be in their own solitary world on the ocean, the unknown lying ahead of them like the unfurled future.

_It's like the explorers who were sent to settle in the New World_ , she thought dreamily.  _What did they expect to encounter_ _on the huge sea? What did they think awaited them on the shore none of them had seen?_

Tom came to join her at her side. "We're at the mercy of nature now. All of us are off to a different world."

"Do you think there's any danger in it?" Sybil wondered aloud. "On the ocean, all alone?"

"We won't be completely alone. There are other ships, but they'll be miles off. They won't bother us," Tom said. "And obviously there'll be danger, but we aren't a rickety old sloop; if there's a storm, God forbid, the only bad thing to result will be a soaked hat."

The ship's horn sounded again, marking her farewell to Ireland. Sybil tenderly touched one of Tom's hand, and he folded his other over hers. They leaned closer to each other and kissed once more, sharing in the perfect moment.

"Promise me that, when we're on dry land again, we'll do that again. Where everyone can see us," Sybil said. "Then, even America will know just how much the rebel loves his lady."

"I promise," Tom said. "We shall stand on top of the Statue of Liberty, and I'll shout it to the world."

"Really Tom," Sybil chided gently, "I doubt you'll need to use words."

"You're right; you standing by my side will be all the proof they need."

Soon, they were surrounded by nothing but ocean, the long road of sea stretching out as far as the eye could see.  _Titanic_ would make no more stops before beginning her crossing on the Atlantic, and so the next shore she would see would be that of her intended destination. Each passenger that remained was bound for New York, bound for whatever fate had stored for each one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now all the ships are on the ship!
> 
> *sobs a little more*
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. In terms of speed, Titanic was not revolutionary: as Mary states, her Cunard rivals could go much faster. Passengers who had an option in the matter did not choose Titanic for her speed, however, but rather for a smoother journey.
> 
> 2\. Having a gymnasium and swimming pool on a steam liner was practically unheard of at the time. Titanic's sister ship, the Olympic, was the first liner to have a swimming bath within the ship. The pool on Titanic would be empty when it was docked at Southampton, and it would be filled with clean seawater when it was out to sea.
> 
> 3\. Steerage accommodations on Titanic were remarkably comfortable. Changes in the past years had been made to 'humanize' the third-class sections. Up until a few years prior to Titanic, steerage passengers had to bring their own food on a ship if they wanted to eat at all. Instead of open dormitory style rooms, third-class cabins had berths for up to six people, and families were usually in the same room. Despite the altercations made for their comfort, those passengers would literally be gated from the other classes, so as to not intermix and prevent the poorer classes from spreading illnesses to other parts of the ship (rather inhumane to think about in the twenty-first century, but it was common practise in 1912).


	3. A Life So Different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more S/T centric because they only just popped up in the last chapter and I wanted to give them some exclusivity as well as exposition. It's more of an extension of the last chapter, really, because it is still the same day when they boarded Titanic. It is also much shorter than previous chapters because I'm preparing to go up to D.C. soon for university and I'm swamped with packing and such.
> 
> I swear I'll work faster if you review. So please review, criticise, praise, or throw a brick at me for putting all of your favourite characters in danger.

The bugle announcing dinner sounded just as the orange sun was sinking below the horizon. As the first-class passengers retreated to their staterooms to don their fine gowns and dinner jackets, the second-class passengers took their time in finishing their deck games and conversations with newfound companions. Sybil, while walking around the deck, had made the acquaintance of Mrs Nellie Becker and her three children. Ruth and Marion were spinning tops on the deck while baby Richard sat on Mrs Becker's lap. She and Sybil sat on the wooden deck bench, their backs to the open sea.

"Little Richard's been ill, so we decided it best to go to the doctors in America," Mrs Becker explained. "India's hardly the pinnacle of modern medicines."

Richard did not move much in his mother's arms, save for blinking and curling his little fingers. Sybil had seen plenty of poorly children, many no older than the year-old Richard, and often families without the money to pay for reliable treatment. The most heartbreaking aspect of nursing, in Sybil's mind, was sharing in the pain that helpless parents felt when holding a child who did not have long in the world. For all the wonders that modern medicine did, it still failed many, simply because it was too expensive or could not reach a patient in time.

The girls giggled as Ruth's top spun across the wood deck. Mrs Becker smiled at them. "They're so good about this whole ordeal of leaving India and their father behind. I know how they would have liked to stay while Allen finished his work, but I couldn't bear the thought of being apart from them. I'd worry myself sick if something happened and they got lost from me."

She turned to Sybil. "Are your children at home?"

Sybil shook her head, eyes staring straight ahead at the golden sky. "No, I … Tom and I don't have any yet."

Mrs Becker ducked her head, blushing. "I'm terrible sorry I assumed something like that—"

"It's alright," Sybil said quickly. "To be honest, I'm surprised as well that there's been no … no children."

It was a trouble that had tormented Sybil and Tom for a long time. For all of the months they had been married, so many sleepless nights spent together, there was little to show for it. Sybil could not help but ask herself if there was something wrong with either her or Tom. Neither of them had been to a doctor yet to see if there were any problems, but hopes were growing thinner with all of the waiting and the uncertainty. What would they have to do in order to get what they wished?

Sybil wanted a family of her own so desperately she often dreamed of it: young children chasing each other down the streets, babies playing on the floor, Tom carrying a little son or daughter in his arms – it was always different each time, but the effect it had on her never changed. Whenever she woke up she would be seized with the urge to hold her child in her own arms, to see him or her clearly, to know that they were real. The dreams  _had_  to mean something was coming. She refused to believe it was only her own longing; it could only be a sign, a vision of sorts, sending her a glimpse of what was to come. It would not matter  _when_  it happened, just so long as she knew that it  _could_. That would be enough to comfort her.

Mrs Becker looked at Sybil sympathetically. "God may just be waiting for the right time. He works in mysterious ways, after all."

_I'd appreciate a_ _sign_ , Sybil thought glumly.

For now, she was content to watch Ruth and Marion at their game and to let little Richard grasp at her tiny finger. Despite the chilly ocean wind, his cheeks were flushed and his palms were dry. Sybil thought,  _if he was a_ _child from the Dublin slums,_ _there wouldn't be much we could do without expensive medicine._

Soon the stewards were urging people to go back inside and prepare for dinner. Sybil went back down to her stateroom, intending to quickly run a brush through her windswept hair. She thought with a little bit of smugness how she didn't need to waste any time dressing up for dinner as her sisters in first-class did. That was certainly one aspect of her former life that she did not miss at all; she liked coming home after a full-day's work, cooking a simple but filling meal, and sitting with Tom across the table, both of them weary but content. Gowns and jewels were nice to look at, but what other purpose did they serve other than to be shown off on pretty girls?

When she entered the stateroom, she did not see Tom. In the middle of the afternoon they had separated, with Sybil taking some fresh air on the open deck and Tom remaining in the smoke room, and Sybil imagined he was taking some time to about his first few hours on  _Titanic_. But wherever he was now she was not sure. Perhaps he had already made his way to the dining room and was waiting for her to join him. She was sure that was the case, so Sybil hurried and smoothed her hair out just enough so she did not look so scraggly. A tiny curl of her brown hair refused to move off of her forehead, but she decided not to do anything about it – no one in second-class would care if there was something out of place.

She set her brush down and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hand reached up and trembled on her own skin. It seemed as though a lifetime had already been etched on her face. She did not look  _old,_ but in her eyes she had already changed so much. That was not to say that it was bad: contrariwise, she thought she looked better than she ever did. Her hands might be worn from work, the bags under her eyes darker from sleepless nights, but her eyes were brighter and when she smiled, it was not forced or exaggerated. She appeared like a real woman now, not just some porcelain doll as she had before been fated to become.

Her sisters in all of their finery might disagree, but being in control of her own life, however humble it may be, had made Sybil more beautiful.

In the reflection of the glass, she saw the door open and Tom entered the room. She turned her head. "I thought you had gone to dinner."

"I came to find you," Tom said. "I lost track of time in the smoking room."

He set his notebook down on his pillow. Sybil looked at him knowingly. "What have you been writing?"

Tom shrugged. "Just what I've seen on the ship so far. The rooms, the people, what the children play, what the men talk about.

Sybil smirked. "Will you be writing a piece about  _Titanic_ that makes headlines around the world?"

Tom shrugged. "It's already made headlines about being the biggest moving object made by the hand of man in all history. If I  _did_  have the intent of publishing a piece it would only disappear amongst the hundreds of other articles."

"You write about life inside the ship, not about her size," Sybil said. "That's what make yours different."

Tom shook his head and said, "I told you before I'm not writing something to put in a newspaper. When we grow old and senile, I want to read those words and remember our adventure. When we … have our children … I want them to know and feel as if they were there on the ship with us. In a week we won't be on this ship anymore, and I figure the journey is going to go so fast we'll find ourselves on dry land if we close our eyes for too long."

Sybil was touched. Only a few hours ago, he had been concerned for his fellow Irishmen cramped in steerage, but his heart seemed to have lightened as he adjusted to the atmosphere aboard. She was glad for both of their sakes; it would make the voyage easier for everyone, especially him.

She stepped closer to them, her lips moving just below his jawline. "Do you think … do you think that we could make our little treasure here, on this very ship? During one adventure, we conceive another, one that would be with us for years, one we could hold in our arms?"

She was looking at him with such hope, such desire, that Tom could not see it being any other way. This was the special time when fate decided would be right for their family to begin – it  _had_  to be, both he and Sybil understood. He kissed her on the forehead, murmuring against her skin, "Of course we can,  _a_ _mhuirnín._  Every night, we'll sleep together, and then our prayers will be answered."

"Every night? Tom, you'll exhaust me!"

"We'll have to," Tom said, kissing her again. "To make absolute sure."

The Bransons went up to dinner as giddy as ever. Like a gentleman, Branson pulled out Sybil's mahogany chair for her, and she mock curtsied to him. The three-course meal they were served seemed to heighten their spirits as well: the rich consommé, spiced chicken, and wine jelly, was a palatable treat for a couple who rarely had better than roasted pork or vegetable soup for most suppers. They went back to their stateroom feeling quite satisfied with their first dinner aboard  _Titanic_.

"My girth will be as wide as an oak by the time we get to New York," Tom remarked.

Sybil laughed. "With all the walking about in this ship, I doubt that."

They were standing in the corridor which led – hopefully – to their stateroom. Tom looked from side to side. "Er … which side were we on?"

Sybil gestured to the left. "I came down this way when I came back from the deck before dinner. Here we are—"

She opened the door and saw straight away a square piece of paper on the threshold. She stooped to pick it up and read:

_Note:_ _the company of Mr & Mrs Branson is requested by the Crawleys and the Strallans in the first-class dining saloon _ _tomorrow evening._ _Appropriate dress is required._

Sybil entered the stateroom still holding the paper. She set it down on the narrow dressing table, where Tom promptly took a look at the steward's note.

"'Appropriate dress,'" he read aloud. He let out a sound between a laugh and a sniff. "Did they expect us to bring along opera gloves and white tie?"

"I don't know what they expected of us," Sybil said. "I suppose they don't realize just how different of a life we live in Dublin. No fancy dinners or parties, no showy dresses, not even at Christmas." She smirked a little. "I tried to convince them of that the last time we were at Downton. They still seemed in a state of disbelief when I told them that."

"I remember." Tom planted himself down on his berth and pulled off his shoes without bothering to unlace them first. "We'll have to think of something, then. I don't doubt they'll give us the boot if we showed up in first class looking as we did tonight."

"I'm sure Mary or Edith will lend me one of their things," Sybil presumed. "And Matthew will have a spare set of tails that you can borrow."

"Wonderful," Tom grunted. "I can spend an entire evening looking like a fool."

"You won't look so bad as you might think," Sybil tried to assure him.

Tom lay back on the bed. "I just can't imagine myself looking like an English lord and not feeling like I'm in the wrong skin."

"When I get back into a satin skirt,  _I'll_  feel like I'm in the wrong skin," Sybil insisted. "Rather, it was the skin I wanted to get out of as quickly as possible. So you won't be alone on that."

She started to remove her blouse and took the pins out of her hair. Tom watched as she pulled on her nightdress, crumpled as a result of lying at the bottom of her trunk for hours. At the sink she splashed warm water on her face as Tom removed his clothing.

"It's been a long day," Sybil sighed as she climbed into bed.

"You can say that again," Tom agreed. He went to stand by the porthole.

"Are you looking at the stars?" Sybil asked.

Tom shook his head. "They seem to be hiding tonight."

"Oh."

Tom crossed the room to turn off the light. "Don't fret about it. When we get further out to sea, they'll be clear as day."

Sybil was not much disappointed: there would be many more nights ahead to see them shimmering in the sky. Besides, now that she had her feet up, she realized just how much they ached, and she could not picture herself still awake for much longer. She patted the mattress beside her, and he got beneath the blankets, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. Sybil raised her head to kiss her husband goodnight, and once she did, her head sank into the soft feather pillow. Making their little prince or princess would have to wait until tomorrow night.

Tom lay motionless for a few minutes, cradling his sleeping wife in one arm. He thought about the days that were to come: the endless sea, the crowded streets of New York, Sybil's arm linked with his. Really, why did he ever have his doubts about this ship that would carry them off to a most extraordinary place, and in the meantime provide them with a brief lifestyle of ease. True, he was dubious of the conditions in steerage and what would happen tomorrow evening in the first-class dining saloon, but it was late and there was no use putting his mind through such concerns.

He placed one last kiss on Sybil's head, though she was already fast asleep, before laying back and closing his eyes.

* * *

_Ice._

_She was surrounded by the stuff, towering over her in the form of huge bergs, nearly invisible in the nighttime waters. They seemed to be moaning, crying out as chunks from the surfaces fell into the sea with a splash. The water that was thrown up hung in midair for a brief second before dropping down, frozen solid._

_Cold._

_It was more bitter than a winter day; the air whipped past her, stinging her cheeks and numbing her fingers. It was the sort of cold in which you could not move, for it constricted your chest and stopped your heart. She felt as though she was naked in the arctic, shivering and stuttering uncontrollably._

_Water._

_It reached over her head, over her outstretched arms. It was rushing about in great gushes and throwing her around. Her vision was muddled and any sounds she heard were muted. When she opened her mouth to scream, nothing came out but a stream of bubbles. Her arms and legs felt like iron, so she could not muster the strength to thrash about or swim or make an effort to breath._

_She was drowning in ice cold water, and she was alone, completely alone._

Sybil jolted awake, panting and shivering. Her hands felt clammy and her spine was damp from sweat. She felt stiff and tried to roll over on her side, but she moved in stilted jerks of her body. She felt an acid in the back of her throat and gulped several times. After a few queasy moments, Sybil felt her heart slowing down and her stomach settling. She sat upright and pinched the back of nightdress away from her cold skin; it clung to her skin like a sticky film and she considered taking it off completely.

When she lay back down, she found she could not force herself immediately back to sleep. The sensations of the dream were still fresh in her mind: the sound of ice tumbling into a dark ocean, frost forming on her skin and hair, loosing all feeling save for the tightness in her chest and the water choking her. There had been pain as well, pain like the edge of a knife scraping against her, then being driven into her as the cold water enveloped her. God, it had been so horrible to feel that agony – but she was quick to recall that none of it had ever been real.  _It was just a dream, just a dream,_  she said to herself over and over.

She turned her head and saw Tom beside her, quite sound asleep. She was glad that he was, for she would have hated herself for startling him because of her dream. It wasn't like it meant or mattered much anyhow. After all, Sybil was well aware that  _Titanic_  was at this very moment heading towards an icy path where the waters were cold enough to freeze a fit man within ten minutes. But aboard the ship she was perfectly safe, and how likely were the chances of her slipping on the deck and tumbling over the railing? Bad dreams did not have the power to frighten her anymore, for they never came to pass as reality and she was far from superstitious. All they could do to her was unnerve her for a fleeting moment and then she would hardly think of it again.

_It must have been all that rich food that's making my imagination run riot,_ Sybil thought. She closed her eyes, hoping that she might be able to get a few more hours of sleep before the morning sun rose above the ocean and sent its rays through the window. Already she felt better than she had a few moments ago. Careful not to lurch the bed, Sybil shifted closer to Tom and settled down with her head close to his shoulder. She made up her mind and decided not to tell Tom about what had experienced in the middle of the night – what good would it do besides? It was all over, and the only thing she could do was let it fade from her memory until it was shut out without a lingering trace.

Sighing and pulling the soft warm sheets up to her chin, Sybil fell back to sleep surprisingly fast. The rest of her night was dreamless and untroubled, and by morning the wretched nightmare would be gone clean from her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *still sobbing*
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. The Becker family were real-life passengers travelling in second-class. There was Nellie Becker, Marion, Richard, and Ruth. Ruth Becker Blanchard was 12 years old when she boarded Titanic. Allen Becker was finishing his missionary work in India while the rest of his family crossed to America so Richard could receive proper treatment for an illness he contracted.
> 
> 2\. As there are no menus surviving for the night of April 11th, I had to rely on the second-class dinner menu from April 14th (which is the night the ship went down). I can't imagine there being too much variation from night to night, but as there aren't any surviving menus from April 11th save for the breakfast lists for first- and second- class, I had to take some liberties with that.


	4. Family Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everybody. Sorry for the delays. I've been busy getting used to a life at university. Classes start next week, and I wanted to churn out another chapter before then. This one is just a filler because I wanted to devote the next chapter one to the first-class dinner scene. I also wanted to show all of the STEAMM crew together in a short drabble-like chapter. (Also, an excuse to revive the Matthew/Tom bromance!). So really, this just serves as a prelude to the next chapter, which I hope I can crank out quickly.
> 
> Remember, read and review!

_April 12th_

This morning was the first in which  _Titanic_  would be surrounded by only the vast ocean; dry land was far behind them and even further ahead of them. These were the days when uninterrupted bliss and leisure again, when the bed of roses was laid out, when all seemed to run as smoothly as it could. In first-class there was already a commotion to utilize the amenities available to them, from the swimming baths to the gymnasium. Still, many others were perfectly happy to lie on the wooden deck chairs or sit and talk in the lounge. Even the third-class passengers could bask in the warm sunlight that shone on the decks that morning. Most of them were gathered on the poop deck, sitting against the railings and watching the children kick around small hard balls. Already everyone seemed well-accustomed to life on the grand ship, and high spirits were abound from the promenade deck to down in the boiler rooms.

After a breakfast of grilled ham and fried eggs, the Bransons walked along the deck designated for second-class passengers, close to the smoking room. The higher promenade on the boat deck was already teeming, and with most of the lifeboats stationed there it made for a rather crowded area at the moment. Despite that, they were still able to catch a little bit of sunlight, and the views were no less magnificent.

"It seems impossible to believe that people built this ship," Sybil said. "I wonder how long it took to complete."

"Over two years," Tom said, "with fifteen-thousand Irishmen bringing her to life."

"Fifteen-thousand, hmm? So will you lay claim to that it's an Irish ship?" Sybil asked, not even trying to keep her grin at bay.

"Of course I will. White Star might own her, but if weren't for the workers in Belfast  _Titanic_  would still be nothing more than a drawing on a big piece of paper."

Tom looked over to where the third-class were collected. Not one of the faces he saw lacked in joviality. They had begun in earnest their isolated life, and for four days it seemed that all of them expected the time of their lives. Tom thought,  _they may not have their own library or swimming baths, but it's enough of a holiday for them not to have to make their own meals or think about working for a few dollars a month._ Even with the first-class dogs being brought out to – well, the reason was obvious to everyone – their spirits seemed incapable of dampening.

Sybil came to stand beside him at the railing. She frowned, as if there was something amiss. "What is it?" Tom asked her.

"Where are rest of the lifeboats?" Sybil looked at either side of the stern, but there were none. She had expected that the third-class lifeboats would be in sight on their delegated deck.

Tom turned around and pointed upwards, to the boat deck. "All of them are up there."

Sybil looked appalled. "I thought those were all for first-class. Those can't be the only ones that are on board. They look like they can hardly fit half of the passengers in them."

"That's the standard for any liner. Besides, it's the actual ship that's meant to be the lifeboat," Tom said. "If  _Titanic_  did happen to take in water, she'd stay above the surface long enough for another ship to get to us. She's well strong."

"Thanks to those big Irish hands, yes?" Sybil said. "So if there's a problem, we'll know which country to—"

"Sybil! Tom!"

Both of them whirled around, looked around, then up. They saw Edith standing on an upper deck, leaning over the railing and grinning down at them.

"Edith! Good morning," Sybil called up. She went to stand right underneath Edith, dragging Tom with her. Edith turned around and yelled over her shoulder, "Mary! Come over here."

Sybil could hear Mary say, exasperately, "What is it now?" When she appeared close to the railing, wearing a wide-brim hat that cast a shadow over her eyes, an intially annoyed expression turned happier. "How lovely to see the two of you again."

Edith pointed somewhere else. "Come up to your promenade on the boat deck and we can talk better there."

"I thought shouting up at your family while standing on different decks was a perfectly civil way to speak," Sybil said, smirking.

Underneath her hat, Mary was rolling her eyes for the fifth time that morning. "Just be quick about it."

Going back inside the ship and winding their way up a set of stairs, Sybil and Tom made their way up by pure instinct. They emerged onto the second-class promenade, face-to-face with a fat white lifeboat and plenty of people milling about. On the other end of the deck was where Edith and Mary were already standing, on their side of the railing of course. Behind them, Anthony and Matthew were coming down the walk, clearly not up to scratch in keeping up with their respective wives.

Sybil and Tom did their best to manoeuvre past the people walking by, keeping their sights on the others. When they got to the end of the promenade, their hearts sank in their chests – the first-class and second-class were separated by about thirty feet, between which was a space solely for crew members to walk through, the gates guarded by red signs saying  _Crew Only_.

"This is ridiculous," Sybil groaned. "I understand why they'd separate third-class from the rest of the ship, but – Tom, what in God's name are you doing?"

Tom was fiddling with the latch that bolted the narrow gate closed; it did not seem locked. "Sybil, through here, quick. Before some nosy steward sees."

He swung the gate open a fraction; being recently fitted, it made hardly a creak. Sybil looked behind her nervously, as if a steward was to appear out of nowhere and upbraid them for ignoring class boundaries. She was aware that they were breaking plenty of written rules and very likely some unwritten ones just by crossing into the first-class area – but did all of that matter when her family was expecting her on the other side? How significant was social order in this circumstance? Besides, Sybil was no stranger to breaking down the barriers of class. As long as no one asked questions, there would be no harm done.

She and Tom slipped past the unlocked gate, Tom clamping it shut behind them. They darted across the engineer's promenade and up the stairs to where the others were waiting. Mary was the only one who seemed unamused with their little escapade.

"Don't look at us like that, Mary," Sybil said. "What other way was there?"

"We could have called a steward!" Mary said, irritated.

"After what we had to deal with yesterday?" Edith asked. "That steward's most likely one out of many pompous attendants on this ship."

On their side of the railing, Matthew managed to undo the latch and Tom and Sybil sidled through, now standing at the same level as their first-class relatives. Just as they had upon meeting yesterday, Mary and Edith each hugged Sybil, although there was still some distance maintained between them.

"It's so wonderful to see you – all of you," Sybil said, looking at each person gathered around in turn. "Golly, how amazing this is! All of us, together again."

Matthew took Tom's hand and shook it jovially. "It's good to see you again, old chap."

"You're looking quite well, you and Ms Sybil both," Anthony said.

Tom put on as composed of a face as he could muster; he found himself to be more excited than he thought he would be. It was nice to see some familiar faces on this crowded ship, even if they weren't his lot. "I'm glad to see both of you again, really."

Meeting with Matthew once more was like reuniting with a long-lost brother. Despite almost completely dissimilar backgrounds, the two of them were thick as thieves, or so Mary put it. It may have had something to do with the fact that Matthew held more sympathetic views toward Tom's morals than did the rest, but whether or not that was the reason Tom got along with Matthew, they were quite the pair of comradely brothers-in-law. Their wives had to admit they got on better than the Crawley sisters often did when they had been young and grudgingly shared space, which had been the time when not so much dissent between the three happened.

Anthony and Tom, on the other hand, were not as close, but they were nevertheless friendly towards each other. Tom had always though of Anthony as, albeit well-disposed, a frumpy old man; he was, however, forever grateful to the man for defending him during a rather nasty embarrassment. He may appear an old fogey, but he had enough ethicality to speak up even when others held no scruples about keeping silent.

"Well,  _now_  we are all accounted for," Matthew declared. "How long has it been since we all stood together like this?"

"Too long," Mary said. Everyone around her thought they were mistaken, but there was in fact a hint of glee in her expression. "And I hate to admit it, but I have missed this; reconvening with some of the more bearable people of this earth."

"Should we take that as a compliment?" Edith half-whispered to Anthony.

"It actually was one, so don't make regret it," Mary rejoined.

"So now that all of us are married, we don't despise each other so much – is that it?" Edith asked.

Mary tilted her head and said, patronizingly, "It might be."

"I'm happy to hear we distract you sufficiently enough to keep you from your bickering," Matthew said.

Mary pursed her lips. "I take back what I said before about you being sufferable."

Matthew clutched at his heart like an amateur actor. "Oh Mary, why do you wound me so?"

"Because you behave rather idiotically sometimes, that's why."

Sybil sighed. "Nothing has changed with you, has it?"

A sudden breeze whipped across the deck and nearly swept hats off of heads. "This wind feels as if it could sweep all of us over the railing! May I suggest we go inside and have our conversation in there?" Anthony proposed, one hand clamped on the top of his hat.

"I think that is an excellent idea," Matthew said. "The lounge shouldn't be too busy at this time."

"Will they let  _us_  in?" Tom asked. He gestured to his neat but distinctly working-class attire that no millionaire would be caught dead in. Sybil was similarly tidily dressed, but never would she be mistaken for a first-class passenger. Surely some onlookers were already observing them curiously (and disapprovingly) from their deck chairs.

Matthew smiled in an attempt to reassure Tom, though that was hardly enough to give him encouragement. He clapped a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Stick with us and you won't suffer any trouble."

"As long as we don't encounter that sorry excuse for a steward again," Mary said testily.

Sybil looked quizzically at Mary. "What are you talking about?"

Mary snorted. "Don't force me to remember it."

Edith leaned towards Sybil and whispered, "I'll tell you later."

The party headed into the lounge on the deck below. Just as Matthew had predicted, there were not so many people inside as there were outside – everyone seemed to enjoy taking in the fresh sea air. There was a group of older American women playing cards and a few couples having a spot of tea, speaking in quiet, intimate tones. A dour-faced governess was policing two lacy children, prompting them to sit straight and not chomp their biscuits too loudly. There was a soft golden light in the lounge from the electric lights in sconces reflecting off the wooden wall panels. The ship's band was playing a dulcet tune directly outside.

Sybil unbuttoned her gloves and her eyes ran across the finely-decorated room. "This is such a nice room. Is this where you have tea in the afternoons?"

"Here, or at the outdoor café," Mary said.

The grandeur of the setting made Tom feel like a very little person, and surrounded by so many well-to-do ladies and gentlemen, he knew he stood out as well as a new light bulb in a dark room. One of the children sitting with the governess gawked at him, and the governess rapped the girl's knuckles.

"They never said manners were included in the first-class package," Sybil said to make light of the situation.

"Let's sit here," Mary decided, leading the way to a round table with six seats. The three couples sat down, and within seconds a steward offered to bring around some tea.

"So, how has your time on  _Titanic_ been so far?" Matthew asked the Bransons.

Sybil sighed. "It's better than I dreamt it to be. We have a nice stateroom on the starboard side, and it's not too small or cramped. We have our own lounge and smoke room, and even a small library. I know Papa worried that it might be too plain (and I can't believe he'd say something like that) but it's all quite lovely. I never would have believed the second class could seem so … well, so first class!"

The others laughed. "Is the food good?" Anthony asked.

"Like a king's feast," Tom exclaimed. "Three course meals every night and I'll be  _rolling_  down the gangplank at New York."

Everyone laughed again as the steward brought forth a silver and china tea service.

"Well, let's hope you can stomach several more courses tonight," Matthew said. "You did receive the invitation to dinner, didn't you?"

"We did," Sybil said. "And it's awfully kind of you."

"It's no trouble, really," Mary assured her.

"For you," Tom muttered.

The energy of the group diminished immediately with those two words. The reaction of the others was general confusion, though Tom was remembering the misgivings he had had the previous night upon seeing the invitation.

Sybil, irked, spoke to him without meeting his eyes. "Tom, it  _is_  generous of them to do so.  _Titanic_  is so bent on keeping the classes separate, so think about the strings they had to pull just to let us have an entire evening with them. And I'm certain they're aware that we don't have the appropriate outfits for dinner."

The last sentence was directed at the others. Mary quickly picked up what Sybil meant. "Of course we know. And we'll be happy to lend you some clothes for tonight."

Edith nodded in accord. "One of my dresses might fit Sybil well. She's closer to my size."

"Then she'll have to borrow some of my jewels," Mary interposed.

Edith turned displeased. "Are you implying something about my clothes?"

Mary sipped her tea, unrepentant.

Matthew leaned towards Tom and brought his voice low. "Tom, I know you aren't going to like doing it much …"

Tom grunted. "That's a hell of an understatement."

"… so I figured you didn't bring along a set of tails or a dinner jacket – much less own. I'm perfectly willing to let you borrow my spares for this evening."

"That's very charitable of you," Tom said reluctantly. "But you know as well as anyone I don't approve of such costumes. I would only be uncomfortable wearing them."

He looked to Sybil for support, but her steely expression didn't change. Tom hated the moment he realized he was fighting a battle on the losing side.

"You know we can't take 'no' for an answer," Matthew reminded him. "Either way you see it, you're going to be adjusting that white tie at the dining table downstairs tonight. Even if I have to force you into it with the promise of a whiskey afterwards."

Tom chuckled with a shake of his head. "I don't know why I bother locking horns with you lot. Somehow, I always end up complying with your standards."

"We understand you have your morals, and we don't want to negate them," Matthew said. "They matter a great deal to you, we all see that. But you have to pick and choose your fights carefully, and this ship is the worst possible place to have a skirmish of standards. What good will it be to argue to these tycoons and lords about oppression of lower people?"

Tom sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I just don't know what gets into me. I want to enjoy my time with all of you – I mean it. I've missed you a lot. But I don't want to forget what I stand for, not even for an evening."

"One night amongst 'our kind of people' won't erase your stubborn mentality," Matthew said with a smirk. "You're too strong-willed for that."

He cleared his throat. "Anyway, my valet will find you later today to help you get ready. And don't get any ideas about hiding out of sight."

"I'll only consider hiding myself when I see how ridiculous I am in your clothes," Tom replied.

He looked to Sybil, who was now smiling affectionately.

"Tonight it'll be just us within our party, so we won't have to share our company with other people," Mary said. "Which is a relief, to be frank."

Sybil let out a slight laugh. "Surely the people here must be rather fascinating, being from all over. I'll bet they're an interesting bunch."

" _Interested,_ more like, and in themselves," Mary corrected. "Last night at dinner I thought I was going to drop from boredom while having to listen to some of these mining magnates rave about their own fortunes."

"They weren't all as bad as  _you_  say," scoffed Edith. "The Strauses were rather nice."

Mary thought. "They were, but they weren't enough to distract me from Col. Gracie's inexhaustible supply of stories from a war which he never even fought in …"

While Mary continued on her tirade, Sybil leaned across the table to pat Tom's hand resting near his plate.

"You'll be fine tonight," she told him.

"Will I?" he whispered back.

"Yes, you will," she persuaded. "And I think you'll look terribly smart as well."

Tom smiled. "What I can't wait for tonight is to see is  _you_ , all fit out like a queen."

Sybil blushed. "I'm just hoping I don't trip over my skirts. Then  _I'll_  look like the fool."

"You thought the same at our wedding and you managed perfectly," said Tom.

"That dress wasn't so bad, there was still a bit of space between the floor and the trim," Sybil said. "Edith's evening gowns tend to be a little long."

Edith's head snapped around. "Do  _you_  have a problem with my dresses as well?"

"Not in the least," Sybil said innocently. "Unless they try to kill me as I'm walking down the stairs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *desperately tries to calm self by taking deep breaths*
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. As Tommy Ryan in Titanic correctly states, 15,000 workers built Titanic at Harland & Wolff in Belfast. She was laid down in late March 1909 and was completed three years later. During construction, over 240 men suffered injuries, and 9 people were killed before she launched.
> 
> 2\. Every one of Titanic's lifeboats were located on the boat deck, so during the disaster everyone had to travel up from their cabins. Though it is common belief that she had fewer boats than could hold the capacity of the ship, Titanic actually had more lifeboats than was typical for other ships. The widespread notion at the time was that the actual steamer was built to be the lifeboat, and the tiny little ones would serve to ferry passengers to other ships if the need ever arose. What also served to confuse many was the assumption that each class had their own lifeboats on their decks, which inevitably caused confusion when second- and third-class passengers were being directed by crewmen during the disaster.
> 
> 3\. The Strauses and Col. Archibald Gracie were first-class passengers. Isidor Straus was the co-owner of Macy's Department Store, and he and his wife Ida traveled on Titanic as a change from their usual method of trans-Atlantic transportation, German steamships. (For the record, they're the old couple lying on the bed as water fills their stateroom in the movie). Col. Archibald Gracie's father fought in the American Civil war and the battle he died in was the subject of a book Col. Gracie had been working on for several years. He had a reputation as a constant raconteur amongst the first-class passengers who knew him.


	5. White Tie and White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay! So, long first week of classes at Uni, but I took a straight 5 hours on the weekend to chuck this out. Enjoy as your week-early dosage of STEAMM fluffiness (does this count as fluff? I don't really know. What exactly is fluff?). Also, warning, more M/T bromance heading your way.

_Evening of April 12_ _th_

The dinner bugle sounded promptly, right at the perfect moment when the sun was halfway below the ocean horizon. It heralded the start of the highlight of social gatherings in first-class, or rather the period of time to prepare for it. Each one of the wealthy passengers returned to their staterooms to pull on their satin opera gloves and fasten their custom cufflinks before proceeding to the dining saloon. For many, it was no different than an evening at home – the Crawleys and the Strallans were accustomed to having to take the time to change – but especially for the Bransons, it was a strange experience.

Tom found himself standing in front of the floor-length mirror in the Crawley's stateroom, dressed in an impeccable turnout of black and white. It was unlike anything he had ever worn before: every inch was meticulously starched and unwrinkled, and probably the fabric in the trousers alone would be enough to make him flat broke. The pomade worked into his scalp made his mousy hair look slick and shiny, although he wasn't sure the way it looked flattered the shape of his head.

"And you're absolutely certain this isn't going to cut into my throat?" he asked huskily, running a finger along the inside of the razor-like wing collar. Matthew's tails fit him surprisingly well, but the stiff-fronted shirt was too confining for comfort and forced him into a position of unrelenting posture. It felt like someone was pressing his hand against the small of his back and into his stomach.  _How the hell can they wear this_   _every night_?

Matthew looked on as his valet adjusted the shoulders on Tom's tailcoat. "I know it's a real bother. That's why there's plenty of wine throughout the evening."

"I don't know if a few glasses of Claret will be enough to make me forget I'm being strangled," Tom said. "A couple snifters of brandy, maybe …"

Matthew chuckled lightly. "You'll get some  _after_  dinner."

The valet helped Tom adjust the gold cufflinks and straightened out the front of his jacket. "That'll do, sir."

"Thank you," Tom muttered. With every article of clothing properly fixed, he didn't look much like a chump, but he certainly felt like one.  _I can't wait to see Sybil's face when she catches me looking like this,_ he thought sardonically. It wasn't that he appeared bad, or even out-of-place – he might trick everyone else into thinking he was a first-class passenger – but he simply looked so different. There was a whole new Tom looking at him from within the mirror, one who didn't reek of activism and politics, but possessed of some hidden ostentation and refinement. It was almost staggering to see the altercation. And yet he was still the same man  _inside_ , clinging on to ideals that would make the old noblewomen pull out their smelling salts.

Matthew stood up from his seat and appeared beside Tom in the mirror's reflection. "You look the part," he mused. "That's all they care about."

Tom rubbed his neck. "Is it? What if they ask about what I do or how I made my 'worth?' Dublin journalist isn't exactly something that sounds like it turns out solid gold bars."

Matthew shrugged. "Make something up. Say you have a farming enterprise or are related to and Irish peer – no, I'm serious," he added when Tom shot him a look. "No one looks too hard into these things, believe me. One man yesterday mistook me for an English lord."

"Did you correct him?" Tom asked.

"No," Matthew said. "Mary thought it terribly amusing."

"I bet." Tom fingered at his sleeves. "I just hope Sybil thinks me alright."

"Why should she be bothered by the sight of you in white tie?"

Tom sucked in a breath. Before he could say anything, Matthew asked him, "Tom, are  _you_  bothered by the thought of Sybil being in a silk evening dress again?"

"No. I think she'll look like the loveliest woman in the room. I  _know_  she will," Tom replied.

"And  _she's_  thinking you'll be the most dapper young man in that dining room," Matthew said, patting Tom's shoulder.

"If that tried to boost my confidence, you've got another thing coming."

Matthew lifted his hand and looked at Tom knowingly. "Well, it's true. I've told you before: it's not going to matter what class you look like you're from. You're still part of the radical Bransons, and no matter how hard my collars try to throttle it out of you, nothing can change you. So stop brooding about it or I'll fetch Mary to knock some sense into you."

Tom rubbed his hands around his neck again. "Just swear to me one thing."

Matthew quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"If I pass out in the middle of the sirloin, you'll be the one to cut me out of this deathtrap."

* * *

"I hope Tom doesn't think me too … too extravagant."

"Sybil, don't be absurd," Mary chided. "He's seen you in evening gowns before, for heaven's sake. It's not a new sight to him."

Uncertainly, Sybil fingered the jade drops hanging from her earlobes. "Yes, but since I've been married to him I haven't worn anything this fancy."

Mary shrugged. "What does it matter? You look beautiful. I'm sure that's all he'll notice."

Edith sniffed. "Even being in one of  _my_  gowns?"

Mary glanced at her irately. She seemed on the verge of making a nasty comment.

"Oh, stop you two," Sybil groaned. "Honestly, I'd have thought that a couple months apart from each other would make you forget how to fight."

"Quarrelling is in our blood; there's no stopping us if you tried," Mary said.

Sybil leaned forward on Edith's vanity and gazed at herself. The gown was white and did not have too many embellishments, but the skirt was rather narrow and the shoes pinched a tad. She hadn't worn jewels this heavy in a long while, and they weighed down on her chest and from her ears. She admitted she looked rather nice – better than nice, actually – but it was a bit bizarre for her. She felt as though she was meeting an old friend whom had disappeared in the blink of an eye and then suddenly reappeared before her. Sybil could not say if the reunion was a happy one.

She waited patiently as Anna fixed her hair in a mature but modest style. "Just like old times," she sighed.

"But you don't miss it at all, do you?" Mary probed.

"No," Sybil said. One corner of her mouth lifted in small smile. "I mean, I miss it some. I wish I could see Mama and Papa and Granny more often. And I wish Papa would write more often."

"Papa's not one to put sentimentality down on paper," Mary said.

Sybil shook her head. "I just want to know how things at Downton are doing. I want to be sure that everything is alright – it was my home, after all. I hope he doesn't think that I've completely forsaken all thought of it."

"When was the last time you heard from Papa?" Edith asked.

"When we got the telegram saying he'd be sending the money for  _Titanic_ ," Sybil said immediately. "And that was all."

Anna repositioned a silver hair ornament and stepped back, finished with primping Sybil's locks. Sybil turned around to Edith. "You see them often, don't you? How are Carson and Mrs Hughes? Have the taken on anyone new?"

Edith giggled. "One thing at a time, Sybil! Carson and Mrs Hughes are well, though the last time I saw them Carson looked like a vessel had burst in his brain; some duke or count I can't remember was going to stay there for a few days."

Mary and Sybil smirked. "That does sound like Carson," Mary said.

"But there hasn't been any big changes, to the staff or the estate itself – not any that I've seen. It looks almost the same as when we were all there together," Edith said. She sounded almost disappointed.

"If only Granny and Papa weren't so resistant to the new times," Sybil said.

"That's why it's good that all of us are on  _Titanic_ ," Mary declared. "We can all testify that the modern world is not so bad as they seem to think it."

"We'll all have to testify that New York isn't as outlandish as Granny suspects," Edith put in.

Sybil stood up and straightened her dress. "I  _do_  look alright, don't I? It's just so ... so weird seeing myself looking like a lady again."

"You look marvelous, darling," Mary said. "And don't start on how Branson might file for divorce when he sees you. He's got a better mind than that."

Sybil took in a deep breath as best as she could with the tight-fitting corset. "You're right. I'm just afraid it will turn out worse than it is supposed to. Someone might say something that provokes him, and that'll in turn provoke me."

"As long as no one sticks their nose where they shouldn't, nothing is going to ruin this night," Mary assured her. "So stop brooding or I'll have no choice but to beat the sense into you."

"Mary, you'd never!" Edith cried.

Mary ignored Edith's utterance. "Now let's join up again. I'm sure our husbands are checking their pocket watches now and wondering if their ladies fell overboard."

She opened the suite door; directly outside stood Anthony, Matthew and Tom, all wearing identical tailcoats and charming smiles.

"Heavens," she breathed. "Don't you look dashing."

"I don't know how that can be, since our clothes all look the same," Anthony said, pretending to be puzzled.

Matthew smiled in the way that never failed to send Mary's heart aflutter. "Darling, you look absolutely stunning tonight," he said in a low tone. He offered her his arm, and she took it.

"Don't embarrass me so," she told him, but she said it in a way so that her meaning contradicted her words.

Edith pressed her lips together. "It's like the rest of us aren't even here," she muttered.

Anthony patted her arm. "Don't mind them. But if I may be so bold,  _you_  look exceptionally lovely tonight as well."

Edith smiled coyly. She turned around to Sybil. "Are you rea – Sybil?"

Sybil and Tom were both standing in the corridor, staring at each other with either stupefaction or adulation. Of course, Sybil must have been in a sea of wonder, finally viewing Tom in a proper white tie, but what was going through Tom's mind? Everyone else stopped and watched them, waiting for a motion, a word from one of them.

Tom was the first to move. He stepped closer to Sybil and, much to everyone's unexpected delight, took her gloved hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing her as a prince would to a princess. He mumbled something against her fingers, which only she could hear. " _A_ _mhuirnín._ "

Sybil blinked, eyebrows raised, mouth open in surprise. Then, in a heartbeat, she descended into giggles. "I just  _knew_  you'd try something like that."

"I was hoping to surprise you," Tom admitted.

"Seeing you in tails is all the astonishment I need," Sybil said. "But may I say that you look most dapper tonight," she added in a pompous upper-class tone.

"And you, my lady, are going to be the most beautiful woman in that whole first-class dining room," Tom responded in the same voice.

Sybil smirked. "Care to escort your lady to dinner?"

"With pleasure," said Tom, holding out his arm. "It will be my great honour to accompany such a gorgeous lady around  _Titanic_."

"Are we just going to toss compliments around the whole way down?" Edith wondered aloud.

"Why not?" Anthony began to lead the way down the corridor to the stairs, Edith walking by his side. "All of you look marvelous tonight – it would be a sin not to say so."

All three couples started down to the dining saloon, meeting and greeting other finely-garbed passengers along the way. No one seemed to be under the suspicion that the Bransons were in the wrong class; they regarded them as one of their own, perhaps a couple that kept out of the spotlight. Tom appeared to pick up on some of the mannerisms of the men and, imitating the more egotistical ones, stood straight-backed and chin turned up (which amused Sybil immensely). The elaborate décor of the grand staircase they were coming down by must have played some part in this charade, for even Sybil could not help but act like a nobly-born lady once again while she was in the midst of the iron bannister grillwork and ormolu garlands. She held her head high

She craned her head close to Tom's ear. "You know, you don't look half the fool you thought you'd be."

"I feel as though I'm acting like one," Tom said.

"Well, you are. If you weren't sticking your nose up to the ceiling you wouldn't," she told him. "Just stand up tall and pretend that you have a fortune in whatever odd thing you can think of. You look like them, and that's enough to get into the club."

Her words rang true. Passing through the reception room to the dining saloon, the Bransons were the recipients of many pleasant nods and 'good evenings,' smiled upon by people that Tom never imagined would be so polite to them. Mary was more than happy to introduce some newfound comrades to the Bransons, and no one questioned their sudden presence in first class. There were just as much of a gentleman and lady as anyone else. And much to Tom's own amazement, he did not hold any ill thoughts towards these people. The vast majority of them were gracious to them, and Mary was careful in ensuring that they steered clear of the more snobbish crowd (which included a good percentage of Americans).

"Oh, how grand," Sybil said breathlessly upon entering the dining saloon. "It's awfully big, though."

"It's designed to fit all of first-class at one time and still leave room to walk about, of course," Mary explained. "Not everyone will dine here – some do choose to eat in the à la carte restaurant in the evenings."

"Do you fit everybody's servants here as well?" Sybil joked.

Mary scoffed. "Obviously not. They have their own dining and sitting room somewhere."

The hundreds of white tablecloths and golden lamps cast the room with in an ethereal glow. They were just in time to see the stewards pushing around the food carts loaded with hors d'oeuvres canapés and carrying bottles of champagne. The ever-present band was playing again, but no one seemed to pay much attention to the song in the background. Some passengers had already sat down, eager to start the evening charged with excellent cuisine and conversation. This was undoubtedly the highlight of the first-class social gatherings, and assuredly many had bought tickets aboard  _Titanic_  just to partake in the best dishes concocted by man.

The party came to their table situated in the middle of the vast room. "Be ready to sit for a spell," Matthew warned Tom. "These feasts take several hours to get through."

Tom tried not to appear fazed. "As long as they don't run out of wine, I think I can last."

Once everybody was seated accordingly, the stewards began attend to them, first pouring champagne in the thin-stemmed glasses. Tom took a good long look at the china dishes emblazoned with the White Star logo, the various crystalware, and the silver cutlery lined up before him.  _Where the hell am I supposed to start with all of these?_

Mary, sitting next to Tom, noticed his uncertainty. She inclined her head towards him. "Start with the outside ones and work your way in," she prompted.

"What about all the glasses?" Tom asked.

"The stewards will pour the wine in the right glasses," she clarified. "They'll also switch the plates out with each course. And put your napkin in your lap."

Tom did as he was instructed. So far, the formalities of the evening did not seem too taxing. Perhaps he had overstressed how tonight would go.

Oysters were served as part of the first course, the scalloped shells practically acting like a reminder to everyone that they were at sea. The champagne was sparkling like a firecracker and the bubbles tickled Sybil's nose, making her giggle.

"I haven't had champagne since the wedding," she said. "And it was not as fine as this."

"It's a real treat for all of us," Matthew added.

That first course was quickly cleared away and replaced with the soup, a cream of barley with a hint of whiskey flooded on top. The energy of the table began to pick up, now that everybody had had a bit of wine to stimulate the mind.

"Did everybody enjoy themselves this afternoon?" Anthony asked. After their brief rendezvous, the couples had split off to different parts of the ship. Anthony knew that Edith had spent most of the afternoon in the reading and writing room, engrossed in one of the many books that lined the shelves in there. She had been the only one in there when he had come to find her for tea.

There were a few nods of affirmation. "Someone in our class arranged a deck games contest," Sybil said. She smiled smugly. "I beat Tom at shuffleboard."

"You won fair and square," Tom said, "so I won't act like a sore loser about it."

Sybil shook her head. "You  _were_  miffed when you found out they were giving out prize money. I left that deck with two pounds in my pocket."

Matthew could not help but laugh a little. "Tom, if you were beaten at shuffleboard by a woman wearing a corset, it leads me to imagine just how ridiculous you'd be in a normal game of cricket."

"I've never held a cricket bat once in my life, so I would look terribly funny on the field."

Mary frowned at Sybil. "Will you be taking up gambling next?"

Sybil rolled her eyes in the same manner that Mary often did. "I haven't gone completely drunk with the sensation of winning money. Though if I was allowed in your smoke room I think I could show some of you how cards are  _really_  played."

The men all laughed. "We should all pull some strings so we can watch Mrs Branson relieve J.J. Astor of a few banknotes," Anthony remarked.

"What about you and Matthew?" Sybil interrogated Mary. "What were you up to today?"

Mary gave her little sister a deliberate look. "Certainly not endeavoring to humiliate my husband at games."

Sybil chose this moment in the conversation to ruffle Mary's feathers. "Oh? Did you humiliate him in some other way?"

Mary's cheeks shot with pure heat and she grabbed her wine glass. Matthew bit the inside of his lip to keep from snorting at Sybil's quip.

Tom leaned over to Sybil. "She'll make you pay for that later, you know."

"It was well worth it," Sybil proclamed, sipping her wine like a victorious queen.

The third course was the fish, a baked cod, over which the men discussed briefly Matthew's work and Tom's new career as a journalist.

"Since I'm a passenger on  _Titanic,_ my editor wanted me to pen a piece about life aboard the biggest ship sailing on her maiden voyage. But as I'm not a first-class passenger I'm not sure I could give the full story about what facilities she has available," Tom was in the midst of saying.

"Wouldn't your readers find it more relatable if you did tell it through the eyes of one such as yourself, as a second-class passenger?" Anthony commented.

Tom shook his head. "Doesn't make for a very interesting feature."

"It doesn't matter if it sounds dull to you – it'll be interesting to anyone who isn't on the ship," Matthew interjected. "Write  _something_. Tell Dublin what life for an average chap on the  _Titanic_ is like. Besides, it'll be good for the history books. More and more great ships will be built, that one bigger than the last, and  _Titanic_  will eventually fade into obscurity. One day, some bloke will come along and take interest in her and want to know what each day onboard meant for real people. Your writing could be cited in some scholar's essay in fifty years."

"Do you really think  _Titanic_ will simply be forgotten?" Anthony asked.

"Do you remember the name of the biggest ship in the world before  _Titanic_  was built?" Matthew put forward.

No one ventured a guess.

"My point exactly. The honour of the ship will remain, but the glory will pass. That is what time does."

"When did my husband become so philosophical?" Mary sighed, raising her face to the white-finished ceiling.

The following courses, entrées consisting of succulent meats and luscious sauces, were presented to them as the evening sky began to cast a rosy lustre through the windows of the dining saloon. They had all been sitting down for quite some time by this point, but no one acted worn out or displayed disinterest (Tom supposed it must have been the robust wines that kept everybody astute). The ship's band had been playing almost constantly from the beginning of the first course, and they seemed to be the only ones suffering from sluggishness. Mary continued to school Tom on how to correctly carve his chunks of meat and which wines were to be decanted next. Tom noticed how Sybil began to follow along to Mary's directions, and he felt a little easier knowing that she had so rapidly forgotten what seemed like second nature to the privileged class.

"It's amazing how I still feel like I have room in my stomach for more," he remarked. "And you do this every night!"

"What else are we supposed to do in the middle of the ocean?" Matthew stated. "I don't fancy a midnight swim in these waters."

"Speaking of swimming, has anyone tried the baths?" Edith asked, her head turning around the table. "I'm considering going down before breakfast tomorrow."

Sybil tipped her head in exasperation. "Well,  _we_  won't have a chance to take a dip there," she said, referring to herself and Tom, "but I'll hold out for the beach at New York. Grandmama thinks we should take a day to go to the boardwalk at Coney Island."

Mary regarded Sybil quizzically. "Are you going to wear one of those silly bathing dresses I see on postcards?"

Sybil shrugged lightly, cutting into her sirloin. "I might. And I don't think they look all that silly."

Tom stifled a juvenile grin as he imagined Sybil in a flouncy bathing suit, standing in the ocean with the waves sloshing at her waist. The expression on her face was carefree, and she was beckoning him into the water with a sprightly gesturing of her hand. He knew she'd splash the sea into his face, cackling happily as he did the same to her.

The only thing that would be missing would be a lively child jumping up and down with them, kicking at the waves and giggling uncontrollably.

It was missing from everyone's picture, he realized. How could it possibly be that no one had yet had the delight of a young one to care for? Everybody had always reckoned that Mary and Matthew would be turning out little boys and girls by the year – no one was unaware of their longing to have a family as well, and their yearning nearly rivaled Tom and Sybil's. Edith and Anthony were perhaps beyond that, but surely it would bring them joy to have nieces and nephews bounding around the lawns of Loxley and going to Downton during the holidays.

Tom felt Sybil tap his arm. "Is something wrong?"

Not willing to disclose what was running through his mind in front of everyone else, Tom merely patting his wife's hand. "I'm alright. Just a bit dazed; must be all this rich food."

"Think of it as practise for when we stay at Grandmama's. She wrote to Mama a couple months ago about her new cook: a complete meal of his creation makes her feel as pot-bellied as an Upper Fifth Avenue banker."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Tom breathed.

There was, of course, more to come this evening. After a palette-cleansing rose water and mint sorbet, a roast was served, followed by an asparagus and watercress salad. Now the sun was completely below the horizon, and only the lamps on the tables and the overhead lights illuminated the dining saloon. The chatter remained at a low hum, but the staff did not bustle about so excitedly, for the last few courses were to be served soon. It was very late, but the time seemed to have flown due to the engaging discussions and decadent dishes.

The group began to jump quickly from topic to topic, briefly talking through plans to be had in America and any already devised once the return trip was concluded. Sybil relayed to her relatives her arduous work as a nurse with optimism, and Mary took a good while to fanatically describe the public scene of London. Overall, there was nothing that diminished the gaiety of the dinner, nothing that lessened the enthusiasm of the atmosphere. Tom hardly gave another thought to the fact that he was surrounded by aristocrats and tycoons – he was laughing and listening alongside them as if he had dined with them plenty of times in the past. Sybil felt no hint of discomfort in her evening gown and heavy jewels, for the presence of her family was, oddly, enough to distract her. Mary had relaxed quickly and did not scorn her sisters any further; Matthew, on the other hand, was the recipient of a few sarcastic remarks, but he brushed them off as if they were specks of dust on his jacket sleeve. Edith and Anthony were simply glad that the whole affair had been a success – perhaps mealtime drama did not take place on the ocean.

The last courses, an exceptionally creamy chocolate mousse and fruit and cheeses, concluded the first-class dinner for that evening. Some older men and women around the room blinked sleepily, but though the stewards were done pushing around carts and carrying heavy carafes, there was still some time set aside for any gossip still to be had. Remarkably, there were still subjects that had not yet been exhausted.

"Next it'll be brandies and cigars in the smoking room for the men," Mary whispered to Tom. "We ladies go into the palm room for coffee. We'll probably finish up a few minutes before midnight."

It was close to eleven o'clock presently. They had sat over the cheese and fruit for some time, and eventually gentlemen at other tables began to rise, nodding to the predetermined suggestion of moving into the smoke room. Anthony followed their example, being the first at his table to stand. "I believe it's time to withdraw. Ladies, thank you for the pleasure of your company. And Mrs Branson, it has been a delight to get to know you better tonight."

Sybil dipped her head, smiling. "I'm glad to have shared in your company as well."

Anthony and Matthew pushed in their chairs. "Come along, Tom," Matthew said, prodding Tom's shoulder. "We'll try not to bore you with our tattle of business and politics. And there'll be good brandy, like I promised."

"My standards have been set rather high, thanks to all the delicacies they dished out," Tom said, rising from his seat. "I hope it's better than anything I've swilled down before."

Matthew gave an exaggerated sigh, as if Tom was being unaffectedly difficult. "Don't worry: it's pretty good here. Actually, it's much better than the type Lord Grantham has."

Tom stood up and edged out of his chair. He could still feel a drone in the back of his head from all the alcohol he had already consumed. He leaned down to Sybil's ear. "I'll see you back in the room."

Sybil turned her head and kissed him delicately. "You seemed to have a good time. I'm glad things went alright."

"I'm glad as well. And tell Mary I'm appreciative of her helping me out."

"It was nothing," Mary stated.

Tom planted one more quick kiss on Sybil's cheek before following Matthew and Anthony out of the dining room.

Mary sighed and rested an elbow on the arm of her chair. "Now our husbands retreat into a cloud of smoke and continue to discuss the dullest things envisioned by man. And the way some of the American magnates talk, you figure out they think themselves masters of the universe."

"Mary, enough," Edith berated . "Let's go and have ourselves some coffee."

Thinning her mouth, Mary slapped her napkin on the empty space where her plates had been. "I don't like how we always separate right after spending a couple nice hours together. All I want now is for Matthew to sweep me up in his arms and carry me off to bed."

Sybil and Edith glanced at each other, barely containing their sniggers. "Do you think she had more than her fair share of wine?" Sybil questioned.

Mary shot up from her seat, prompting the others to do the same to avoid making Mary look like she was storming off. "Don't treat me like a goon for wanting a bit of intimacy with my husband. It's been a long day, and after spending it with the likes of you two, I think I deserve it."

Edith turned to Sybil and heaved a sigh. "This ship really isn't big enough for all of us."

"The  _whole world_ isn't big enough for us all," Sybil countered.

They moved into the palm room along with the other ladies, nodding politely in acknowledgement. The stewards circulated about with large silver trays of coffee, hot lemonade, and petit fours. The themes of the conversations among exclusively ladies were comprised of unconstrained gossip and details of the latest happenings in all the fashionable cities. Much to Sybil's disappointment, there was hardly a mention of the suffrage movement taking both the States and the Isles by storm. Mary, on the other hand, assimilated easily to the trivial gossip, and Edith stood close by, one ear tuned to any sharp comments that Mary dared to utter.

Meanwhile, in the smoke room, the gentlemen mulled over cigars and brandies, playing through a few quick hands of cards or discussing trifling matters that primarily concerned themselves. Neither Matthew nor Anthony engaged too much in these discourses, and Tom stood around silently, a snifter of brandy in one hand.

He looked around the warmly lit room, decorated with mahogany panels, an actual fireplace, and intricate stained glass windows. He imagined that in the daytime, when the sun was bright, the light shone beautifully through the coloured glass. There was a second-class smoking room, but it seemed positively plain compared to here.  _However_ , he thought,  _if only the conversations here were as fascinating as the design of this room_.

Tom separated himself from the small circle he had been standing in and went close to the tall fireplace. He pretended to admire the painting above the mantelpiece, but he was more focused in downing his brandy. The lengthy evening had left him exhausted, and what he was looking forward to most was his bed with Sybil beside him, mussing up the sheets and tangling her fingers in his hair …

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Matthew coming to stand beside him. "Has it been a good evening for you?" Matthew asked, not looking at Tom.

"I didn't think I'd enjoy myself half as much," Tom admitted.

He grunted and shifted his snifter to the other hand. "I was meaning to ask you – not during dinner, but – how are things with you and Mary?"

Matthew looked questioningly at Tom. "Everything's fine between us." He turned away, his fingers drumming the outside of his glass.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

Matthew said nothing. Tom swallowed the remainder of his brandy and left the glass down the mantelpiece. "Don't put on the 'I don't know what you mean' act that you English like so much. Something's troubling you, you and quite possibly Mary. I can tell."

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Matthew turned around and sat down on the bench across from the fireplace; Tom went to sit beside him. Matthew stared hard into the crackling fire, reaching around and setting his glass on the table behind him. A whole silent minute passed, but Tom waited patiently.

Matthew finally began. "I know it sounds utterly ridiculous, but … I've found myself thinking about something Mary said to me, on our first night here. She … she said she felt as though something was going to happen during the voyage. She didn't say if it was bad or not, but I think it did worry her more than she let on."

Tom leaned forward to look Matthew in the eye. "Did she mean something happening to  _you_ both, or to the ship—?"

"I feel she meant both. She didn't explicitly say." Matthew's voice lowered and his brow creased. "But suddenly I feel the same way. It's like a cold hunch and I can't ignore it. I'm frightened, more for Mary's sake than my own, and I'm even more worried since I have no goddamn idea about what she could possibly be disturbed by."

He inhaled a shaky breath. "And when I try to envision ourselves making it to New York … I can't picture it. For some reason, I just can't. That's what frightens me most – it's like a future that isn't meant to be."

He fell silent as a steward came by, offering a box of cigars. Matthew and Tom both took one, though Tom took his solely for convention. Matthew lit his and drew in a billow of smoke.

"I'm not sure why, but I don't think you're being ridiculous," Tom confessed.

"Is that the alcohol talking?" Matthew asked, lifting the cigar to his mouth again.

"I'm serious – I'm not going to put you down as some milksop. For whatever reason you've started thinking about this, I don't think it's just nerves."

"Why? Do you feel it too?"

"Not what you're feeling, exactly. But it's like an uncertainty. Things are changing and we can't stop them, and we'll be caught in them before we can see what's going on."

Matthew blew out a stream of smoke. "I just want Mary to be alright. If something horrible happened to her – something she could never recover from – I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"I understand. I feel the same way with Sybil."

Neither said anymore on the subject. Determined not to end the evening on a sombre note, the two men decided to reintegrate themselves with the other gentlemen. They watched a rather frenzied poker game that only drew to a close as the clocks chimed midnight. The ladies were by then withdrawing one by one to their staterooms and suites. Sybil stopped to return her jewels to Mary's jewelry box and in the morning Anna would come down to retrive the dress she had borrowed. She collapsed into her berth very full and very satisfied.

When Matthew finally climbed into bed, Mary was already half-asleep. "'S that you?" she mumbled against the pillow.

"Yes, it's me, my darling." Matthew lay down beside her.

"'Mm glad … things went well tonight."

Matthew nodded, though Mary's eyes were closed. He inched closer to her. Searching for her hands underneath the sheets, he entwined his fingers around hers. "I love you so much, my darling," he murmured.

"I know you do," came the half-muffled response.

"I know you know. I just need you to hear it."

"I hear it all the time ... I feel it …"

Matthew looked at his wife in a bemused manner, and he wondered if tonight they had in fact been served one too many wines. Nevertheless, he kissed her on her forehead and closed his eyes, the sensation of her hand in his the last thing he was aware of before he fell asleep.

What he had said to her on their first night, about them staying together no matter what fate was destined to throw at them, echoed in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * deep breathing fails* *imediately resumes sobbing*
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. There are no surviving menus for the dinner the night of April 12th, so I had to draw from what I think would be served onboard Titanic to first-class. There are some things that were served the night of the disaster present here as well, and others were popular dishes in Victorian and Edwardian times. It was complete guesswork on my part, but I did try to keep the order of the courses exact: hors d'oevres, soups, fish, etc.


	6. A Real Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is the day right before the disaster *dun dun duuunnn!* The way I see it, this is the penultimate chapter of the first act, which is the generally happy section – then comes the bad part. I didn't realize how quickly I would write this chapter, and for some reason it seems a bit ... lacking? But you're the ones critiquing it, so let me know what you think of it.
> 
> Read, review, and all that jazz (which hasn't really made an appearance yet since it is still 1912, but who gives a rudder?)

_April 13th_

When Anthony woke up the next morning, he found Edith already eat breakfast on the private promenade deck.

"You're up early," he remarked upon walking out to join her. "Now, let me guess: you made good on your word and went for an early morning swim, didn't you?

Edith gave him a knowing smile as she spread butter across a Vienna roll. "You didn't even notice me getting out of bed."

Anthony scratched at his head. "When was that?"

"An hour or so ago."

"And how was it?"

"Refreshing," sighed Edith. "I needed a good soak, especially after last night's dinner. I found some of the dishes to be rather rich, even to my tastes."

"It though so too. But it was excellent, per usual," Anthony declared. He sat down and helped himself to a grilled sausage. "Everything went exceptionally well last night, don't you think?"

"It did," Edith agreed, "it really did. Which surprised me."

"How do you mean?" Anthony, however, did have an idea to what Edith was talking about.

"If we were back home – at Downton, I mean – more than likely there would be a bit of … disagreement, between certain people. Especially between Papa and Tom."

Anthony stirred his tea and took a sip. Too much milk. "He acted quite the gentleman last night, I thought. Hardly a whiff of politics from his direction."

"Did he not put in a few words when you men were nattering in the smoke room?" Edith asked.

"We didn't talk much of politics in there. Actually, it was rather tedious: Mr Astor was speaking about his building of the Astoria hotel and the troubles he had during that period. Well, they didn't seem like they troubled him too much. Anyway, we steered clear of politics for that session, and Mr Branson did not utter anything of that sort either."

"I suppose Sybil gave him a talking-to," Edith said. "But he did behave very well. He seemed to the enjoy the evening immensely."

"All's well that ends well," Anthony stated. "Do you think we'll see them again before we disembark?"

"I don't know. It's still a few days before we reach New York, and I don't want to leave them completely be. I'm sure we can manage to have tea together one day," Edith said.

"Will we see them for the service tomorrow?"

"Second-class have their own service in their lounge," Edith explained.

Anthony shrugged. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to socialize when we get to New York. What does your grandmother plan to do with the three of you?"

Edith gave a short, airy laugh. "Where do I start? Well, she said first she'll take Mary, Sybil and I out to the stores so we can be  _à_ _la mode_. As if she thinks the English are inattentive to fashion."

"I've seen all those spare cases of Mary's, and it looks like she's planning to empty out half the stores on Fifth Avenue," Anthony said.

"That's the price of living in London," Edith said. "She's obligated to compete with the other women there on silly things like clothes and receiving invitations."

"To each his own, I suppose," Anthony said, taking another sip of milky tea. "Do you intend to bring anything back for your family or some of your friends?"

"Mary and I were thinking that we'd bring Granny back something with 'America' written all over it," Edith mentioned.

Anthony chuckled. "Won't she be excited about that! How about you get her a model of the Statue of Liberty for her garden?"

Edith poorly stifled a fit of giggles as she imagined workmen delivering such a thing in the middle of her grandmother's rose garden whilst the old woman looked on with a sullen stare.

"Yes, that would be awfully droll," she said. "But I certainly don't want to spend all of my time in America buying clothes and going to teas with Grandmama's friends."

"Is that so? What is it you'd like to do?"

"Be with you, of course."

Anthony paused, and then he smiled. "Even in America you want to be tied to an old codger like me."

"Whether or not you're old or a codger hardly matters to me," Edith insisted. "I  _want_  you and I to share in our adventure, to see everything the other sees. Just because you think yourself as old doesn't mean you really are, not at heart. We'll see it all together, the picture galleries and museums and parks, and don't think I'll let you out of my sight."

She realized her voice had gotten a bit louder and more fervid. Embarassed, she leaned back in her wicker chair and reached for her fork to give her mouth something better to do.

"Oh Edith," Anthony sighed. He reached across the table to pat the hand resting near her plate. "You're wiser than most women your age, you know."

"Really?" Edith had never thought of herself as a clever woman; she was, in her own eyes, more plain than any other human quality.

"Of course you are," Anthony said, with a twinkle in his eye that reminded Edith of the starry sky that they had seen the previous night outside the suite windows. "You're a hundred times more clever than you believe you are."

"And you've a hundred times more life in you than you think," Edith countered.

Anthony smiled bashfully, then reached over and patted Edith's hand. "Wherever would I be without you?"

"Unfortunately, not here, that's for sure," Edith answered. She stood up, walked around the table, and planted a kiss on her husband's cheek.

"I'm going to the library, if you want to find me before luncheon," she said to him. She turned to go back inside the suite.

"And perhaps  _I'll_  go down to the swimming baths, if you want to find me," Anthony replied.

Edith turned her head and gave him a sly smile. "I'll remember that."

In the suite next door, Mary was only just stirring, and she was certainly not waking up as some sleeping beauty. Somehow, her hair had untwisted from the braid and fashioned itself into knots. Loose strands clung to her cheek and to the corners of her mouth. Groggily, she lifted her face from the pillow, her dry tongue lapping around her lips.

"Good morning my dear," Matthew said cheerily. He was already dressed for the day.

"Mmph … morning," mumbled Mary. She blinked and rubbed her grotty-feeling eyes, her husband's figure gradually coming into focus. "What time … is it?"

"Breakfast should still be hot, in case you're worried about that," Matthew responded. "It's alright, though. Sleep in as long as you like."

Though she very much would've enjoyed an entire day in her warm, cushiony bed, Mary nevertheless threw back the covers. "I'm not about to let a whole day go to waste; with all that we paied to be on this boat I intend to make the most of it."

In spite of her insistent words, she remained on top of the bed, as floppy as a linen cloth. Matthew smiled and shook his head at his wife's amusing behavior. "Then I'll have Anna bring you a cup of tea."

Mary smiled sleepily and held her hand out to Matthew. "Will you not kiss me first?"

Matthew complied and gave Mary a long, lovely kiss. Her hand snaked around the back of his neck and she pulled him down on top of her, taking him well by surprise.

"Ah – Mary!" Matthew cried, laughing.

Her movements clumsy but eager, Mary arched her back up and pressed herself against his mouth. She cupped Matthew's jaw and he placed his hands around her wrists, at the same time deepening their untidy, improperly-timed kiss. Was that a trace of an exceptionally potent Claret on her lips?

As quickly as she had begun that little diversion, Mary slumped back on the bed, her arms falling flaccidly to her sides. Matthew climbed off of the crinkled sheets, producing a wily grin.

"Well, that was a bit disappointing," he said. "Are you sure we're through for now?"

"We're through for now," Mary repeated, throwing in a yawn. "We can continue tonight."

Matthew faked a grumble. "Do we have to wait that long?"

From under the sheets, Mary's foot kicked at his direction. "Shoo. It's hard enough getting out of bed without you to distract me."

Giving her one last peck on her forehead, Matthew then strode out of the bedroom, mentally making a note to be the one to pick up where Mary had left off.

Shortly, Anna entered the suite, carrying a small tea tray. "I'm going to bring out some warmer clothes for you today."

Mary looked out the window – the sky was as blue as ever and there was not much movment on the ocean. "Has it gotten much colder?"

"It will be," Anna answered. She began to prepare Mary's cup of tea. "The ship is going to go through some pack ice soon, possibly even today."

Mary's heart seemed to give a convulsive beat. "What does that mean?" she asked, suddenly panic-striken. "Is that bad?"

Anna shook her head. "Not at all. It's expected for this time of year. The crew know what they're doing."

"But doesn't that mean there are icebergs as well?" Mary protested.

"Don't worry about those milady," Anna calmly reassured her. "Anything that big, the lookouts will spot it in time."

Mary nodded, seeing the logic in Anna's information. She should have already known that they were steaming through the north Atlantic where there was bound to be plenty of ice. Why had her heart given a sudden jolt at the mention of pack ice? Surely they  _would_  see anything that posed a danger in time to avoid it.

_Besides_ , she weakly convinced herself,  _what's a bit of ice to an unsinkable iron ship_?

Anna handed Mary the cup filled to the brim with hot tea, then went to the wardrobe and fished out a few dresses. "Now, which of these do you want to wear for the morning?"

Down in second-class, both the Bransons had already begun their day bright and early, though Sybil had gotten to a later start than Tom. She was only now going out to the deck to join him, though first there was the matter of finding him. She paced down the port side and towards the stern, where she caught sight of him leaning against the railing, looking down towards the third-class deck. He seemed to be talking to someone.

As quickly as her lace-up boots could convey her, Sybil walked closer to where Tom was standing. He  _was_  talking to somebody, likely someone from the third-class.

" … and the food isn't half-bad neither," spoke someone with an even stronger Irish accent than Tom. "For some of us, it's better than we've had before. We got a plum pudding for dinner yesterday."

Tom huffed a short laugh. "You should see what the first-class people get for supper. Wonder they aren't all as fat as oak trees."

"Ah, now we don't much of a supper. Only some cabin buscuits and coffee, maybe a little cheese, just to tide us over for the night," said the other man.

Sybil came to stand next to Tom at the railing. She looked down at the man he was busy talking to. He had a short crop of brown hair and a cigarette stub in his mouth. He could have been around twenty-one or twenty-two. Tom startled a bit to see Sybil next to him without warning.

"Oh! There you are, Sybil," he said brightly. He gestured to the man a deck below. "Daniel Buckley. He's been telling me about how steerage is on the ship."

Daniel saluted to Sybil. "Lovely to meet you, miss. Your husband's got a whole arsenal of questions; making me feel like I'm being interrogated."

"He's been rather curious about life for you on  _Titanic_ ," Sybil said, folding her arms on the thin white railing.

"Well, it's not a bad state of affairs," Daniel reiterated. "Cabins are nice, food's good, and we get this whole deck to ourselves. Apart from the first-class dogs coming down to take a piss. But other than that, I don't feel there's much to complain about."

"I'm glad things are good for you," Sybil said, glancing over at Tom. "Now we know for sure that  _Titanic_  treats all of her passengers as well as White Star claims to."

"Aye, that's for certain," Daniel agreed. He turned away and went on his way with a friendly wave.

"Good to see you've made friends," Sybil said, nudging Tom's arm.

Tom dropped his head with a slight laugh. "You know, you won't believe the crazy suggestion that Daniel made to me just a few minutes before you popped up."

Sybil looked quizzically at Tom. "What is it? Come on, tell me," she urged.

Tom took her by the arm and strolled down the promenade, explaining the idea that Daniel Buckley had planted in his mind. When he had finished, they were facing the bow of the ship and Sybil was grinning cheerfully.

"That's a mad idea – and it's no less brilliant," she said excitedly. "What do you think? Should we do it?"

"I'll go anywhere you go," Tom answered enigmatically.

Sybil ignored his attempt to be sentimental. "Alright then. What about the others? Do you think we can drag them along as well?"

Tom chortled. "Sybil, do you  _honestly_  think they'd agreed to  _that_?"

"Well, they were kind enough to invite us to dinner – I think it's only fair that we return the favour."

"Is this really going to be a good way to return the favour?"

"Do you have any other suggestions?" Sybil asked, putting her hands on her hips and looking at him condescendingly.

Tom shrugged. "If you can convince Mary to follow you into this, then I suppose it's as good as anything."

Sybil smirked as if she had just won a rather disagreeable argument. "I think I can manage that."

* * *

The rest of the morning passed without much variation in the timetable. Excellent meals were eaten, casual gossip was had, and the voyage remained as wonderfully pleasant and smooth as it had been for the preceding days. Quite a few passengers had learned from crewman or otherwise figured out on their own about the upcoming appearance of pack ice, but that was not unanticipated. Aside from a slightly chillier afternoon, no one seemed disturbed by the ship's course in the least. Not even Mary's horrid thoughts about the ice lingered for long after she had heard about it.

After luncheon in the à la carte restaurant, Edith settled her solitary self in the lounge, another book in her hands. It did not matter that she had spent a good portion of the morning in the library with the same book – she was eager to finish it today, and it was too engrossing to put down for now. However, something else in the lounge was about to pique her interest.

From the top of her book, she caught a glimpse of two eminent-looking men walking into the lounge; one of them wore a suit and had a thick curling moustache, the other white-haired and bearded, wearing what Edith realized was the captain's uniform. The two men sat down at a table very close to her, close enough to hear their talk without straining, and they were prompt in getting down to business. Edith knew it was most definitely not her business as to what they were discussing, but she could clearly hear what they were saying, and what they were saying drew her attention away from her book.

Captain Edward Smith reached into his pocket and pulled out a square piece of paper. The other man took it, unfolded it, and scrutinized it. As he rapidly read through it, Captain Smith said to him, "We've preformed well so far, and I believe we'll make it into New York on time."

The other man, whom Edith imagined to be what's-his-name from White Star – the one Thomas Andrews had mentioned when they met him – kept his eyes on the paper. "But you haven't lit the last four boilers," he said as though it were something to scorn.

Captain Smith shook his head. "I don't see the need to yet. She's making excellent time, and besides, it won't be good for her engines if we stress them out before they've been properly run in."

The other man – Ismay, Edith recalled – was mumbling something he was reading off the paper. It was a set of numbers, probably the length of the run so far. "We'll, we did better today than we did yesterday. We will make a better run tomorrow."

"How so?" the captain asked.

"Light those last few boilers, and  _Titanic_  will beat the  _Olympic_ on her course. We will get into New York on Tuesday night."

Captain Smith remained stoic, but he did not seem to appreciate Mr Ismay suddenly acting as if  _he_  were the one comandeering  _Titanic_. Edith didn't like it either: Mr Ismay seemed the one out of the two to not know what he was talking about. It would inconvenience everybody if  _Titanic_  arrived a day earlier than she was meant to – what about those who did not have hotel reservations until Wednesday? Mr Ismay might be Captain Smith's boss, but even he ought to realize the captain knew what he was doing.

Just then, something else distracted Edith: a steward coming forward with a message. "Lady Strallan, this just came from your sister in second-class."

"Thank you," Edith said, waving the steward away. She unfolded the message and read it with a baffled expression:

_Meet_ _us_ _by the_ _staircase after dinner._

Edith read the paper over, trying to read between the lines of her sister's handwriting.  _Sybil, what the hell are you getting us into now?_  she wondered.

* * *

"I highly doubt that whatever scheme Sybil's got going on will be worth a smidgen of our time," Mary said exasperatedly.

"Have more faith in your own sister," Matthew sighed.

Mary glared at him. "After what she's pulled in the past, that's rather difficult for me."

Anthony, leaning against the bannister, cut in. "I don't think we should judge until we see what she wants with us."

Edith nodded. "I agree. Though I still don't understand why she couldn't tell at least one of us what's going on."

"Perhaps it's meant to be a surprise," Matthew put forward.

Mary snorted. "Sybil's quite good at those."

Everybody else gave Mary very reproachable stares. "It would be erroneous of us to blame your attitude on the wine again," Edith admonished.

Anthony flipped open his pocketwatch. "But what could Sybil and Tom possible want this late at night? Surely there can't be anything spectacular happening in their class at this hour."

"Not in  _our_  class," Sybil said from behind, making Mary give a start.

"Good heavens," she said crossly, "what's this all about?"

Sybil looked up coyly at her older sister. "Since all of you were kind to invite Tom and I to dinner last night, I thought it would be nice if we took you out for a bit of fun."

"Out for a bit of fun?" Mary repeated. "Sybil, what do you have in mind?"

Sybil grinned. "Follow me and see."

Mary stood, gaping, but Matthew took her by the hand. "Mary,  _I'd_  very much like to see what Sybil has in store for us, and I think you should to. Just because it's unexpected does not mean it is at all ludicrous."

Mary opened her mouth to argue, but as Matthew was already leading her down to where Sybil was sneaking off to, she ascertained it would do no good. God, how she hated being led into the unknown.

Edith and Anthony were equally perplexed, but all it took was one suggestive glance from Edith and Anthony knew he'd have no resistance from her. "When Sybil presents these sort of surprises, what do they usually entail?"

"I honestly do not know what she's got planned this time," Edith said.

The Crawleys and Strallans followed Sybil down the hall a few steps before she turned down a small alcove-like corridor and opened the white door at the end of it. "Through here, quick."

Mary looked at Sybil reprovingly. "Sybil, that door is for the crewman. You can't go through there."

"I'm well aware of that, thank you," Sybil sniffed. "But it's the only way we can get to where we're going."

"And where is that?" Mary asked.

Again, Sybil shook her head, adamant that it remain a secret. "You'll see in a moment. Now, we have to be very quiet. I was lucky not to run into any of them on my way up."

"You'd better have a good excuse if we  _do_  get caught," Mary growled.

Sybil shrugged. "I could say we wanted to see Scotland Road. Or simply that we got lost."

She took to a flight of metal stairs, and everyone followed her, conscious of how loud their footsteps were. Mary was still not comfortable with this whole thing, but if Matthew had no qualms about trailing Sybil to her mystery, than how bad would it be? Peculiar, no doubt, but harrowingly awful?

Well, it wasn't as if Sybil wasn't known for creating a stir. Whatever she had up her sleeve, Mary figured it was going to be well away from the ordinary.

During the next five minutes of creeping along stairwells and dimly lit corridors, they achieved the miraculous feat of not encountering any stewards or crewmen. They heard the footsteps and the clinking of trays and plates, sometimes muffled prattle, but never did passenger and servant cross paths – they were as inconspicuous as ghosts. As they came closer to the where Sybil was leading them, what sounded like a lively melody being played amongst spirited chatter could be heard through the walls.

Sybil stopped outside a pair of plain white doors, the sign saying 'general room.' "We're here," she declared. "Sorry that we had to go along the secret path, but the main entrances are gated."

"Gated?" Mary repeated in disbelief. "Sybil, what is this?"

"This," Sybil said dramatically, "is a real party." And with that, she pushed open the doors.

The scene they were met with was one of disorganized merrymaking, attended by a hodgepodge of varying cultures and languages. The vibrant, indigenous sounds of bagpipes and bodhráns rang through the room, and just as resonating was the cacophony of laughter and cheering, of heavy shoes slapping against the floors and the tables and hands clapping in time to the beat of the drum. No one could ignore the whiffs of stout and lingering scents of hot bread, as well as the odour of too many bodies in one space. The light was hazy from clouds of smoke billowing from cigarettes. Skirts and shawls swirled and hats were flung about – there was so much motion in here that no one knew what to focus on.

Sybil could barely contain her excitement. "And this happens every night."

"Every night?" Edith cried over the raucous voices and music. "How have I never heard it through the walls?"

"I think they're rather thick," Antony surmised.

Mary's jaw went slack and her eyes were bulging. "Sybil … how the hell did you find out about …  _this_?"

"A man Tom met this morning," Sybil said. "He told him about these gatherings and I figured it would be an awful lot of fun to bring you along." She smiled almost apologetically. "I know it's seems so … well, third-class … but if it's any consolation, you aren't going to catch any fatal diseases. There's a reason why they had the health inspections before they were let onto the ship."

"Where's Tom?" Edith asked, looking about the room.

Sybil shrugged. "Not where I left him."

From one corner of the room, there came the sound of a table falling apart and glasses crashing to the floor. A group of burly men were crowded around a red-faced someone lying on his back – Tom was amongst these men.

"Found him," Sybil said weakly.

Mary looked as though she were either about to faint or wring Sybil's neck. Instead, however, she burst into hysterical laughter. It was the others' turn to stare in speechlessness.

"Darling Sybil, you could have warned me not to wear something so constricting!" Mary exclaimed over the clamour. "How am I supposed to anything energetic in a  _corset_? I honestly thought you were going to show us the boilers or something!"

Sybil doubled over, snickering. "I don't know the way to  _those_."

"Good. I'd rather  _not_  see sweaty men shoveling coals into a furnace." Mary grabbed Matthew's hand and pulled him into the animated throng, not noticing his stupefied reaction to her altered attitude towards Sybil and Tom's surprise. "Let's find ourselves a table."

Edith and Anthony watched Mary and Matthew disappear into the celebration. "I was not expecting that at all," Edith breathed.

"Do you think it's the wine talking?" Anthony wondered.

Edith shook her head. "I don't think it is, actually."

Together, they too moved further into the crowd, and two bearded men freed up a table for them. They had a perfect view of the small group of people with uncommon instruments and the couples dancing around them. There wasn't any formal structure to the dance – everyone seemed to make up the steps as they went along, twirling and swinging about as they pleased.

Anthony motioned to the impromptu band. "Certainly a livelier bunch than our own."

Edith was clapping her hands along to the pounding of the bodhrán. "They do it for their own fun. And people are actually listening to them."

Tom appeared behind them, three pints of dark beer between his two hands. "If you aren't already tipsy from all of that fine wine they gave you, we have more than enough of this sup to go around."

"Thank you Tom, but I'm afraid I wouldn't make it back to the suite if I drank anything more tonight," Anthony said.

Edith however, took one of the glasses Tom had set down on the table and took a sip. She made a face, the beer sloshing over the rim. "Ugh – how do people drink this? Are you sure it isn't bilge water?"

"Clever," Tom muttered under his breath. He took a large swallow from his own glass.

"When did all this start?" Anthony asked.

"After the stewards finished bringing 'round their supper," said Tom. "I think they'll keep going until morning if they can."

The song ended with a loud trill from the fiddle, but the musicians were quick to pick up another jig. Tom left the Strallan's table, calling out for Sybil.

"I'm over here," Sybil answered. She emerged close to the edge of the dancing area.

Immediately, Tom took ahold of one hand and put his other around her waist; before Sybil knew what was happening, he was sweeping her across the dance floor, spinning and laughing. Her feet barely touched the floor, and her hair flew in her face. All the colours of the third-class general spun blurred as Tom whirled her about in his own topsy-turvy attempt of a waltz. He laughed huskily as her giggles cascaded like the  _ting_ ing of the beer glasses.

"Tom … oh, God Tom!" she cried, hanging onto his shoulder. They nearly bumped into a German couple, the man twirling the woman like a spinning top. Tom did the same thing, and Sybil fell into his arms, her head throbbing and her heart pounding. She had not felt this rush of energy, of vitality for so long – perhaps ever. She was merry from the stout she had glugged earlier and Tom's sweaty touch upon her waist.

Smoothly, Tom dipped her entire body, cupping the back of her head. A low cheer rose from the nearby rabble. "I've always wanted to do that," he grinned.

Fluidly, Sybil rose up again, panting, feeling the blood in her head rush back to her body. "I've waited forever for you do that."

She pulled him to her by the collar and pressed her lips against him, which elicited another hoot from the crowd. Neither she nor Tom were bothered by their gawking. Tom let out a rugged sigh when their lips parted, and Sybil gave him an affectionate gaze.

"Oh my God," she gasped. "I think Mary and Matthew are joining us."

Tom looked over his shoulder. Mary had emancipated her hair from its trimmings and it was spread, frizzy from the stifling air, across her shoulders. Her satin gloves and choker necklace lay haphazardly on the wooden table. Matthew had removed his coat and waistcoat and undid his collar, his blonde hair now tousled. Both of them looked as carefree as any other steerage partier. Looking down, the Bransons realized that Mary had kicked off her shoes and was crossing the floor in her stocking feet.

"I'm not about to let you look like the fun pair," Mary smirked at Sybil.

She clutched at Matthew's shoulders as he wove his hands around her back, the two of them pressing closer to each other. Just then, the tempo of the music picked up, and straight away Mary and Matthew were cavorting around the room with the other dancers. Mary was squealing and her eyes were clenched shut; Matthew was whooping and holding Mary close to him. Sybil – who had only seen Mary take part in stiff, prearranged waltzes and the like – let loose her own hurrahs. Edith and Anthony, watching from their private little table, applauded and bravoed over the racket.

The steps were sprightly and unevenly paced, becoming more disorderly as the band played faster and faster. Matthew deftly climbed onto a wide table, pulling Mary behind him; she seemed confused as to what he was doing. Her eyes went wide as Matthew held her at arm's length, then began to whirl about, taking her with him on a reeling spin.

"Ah! Matthew!" she shrieked. The whole world whirled about her and she screamed exuberantly as she and Matthew rushed about in their own little circle. She didn't stop to think about what she was doing, or even how she was doing it – she had never done anything like this before. Sweat was forming on her face and under her arms, and her heart was pummeling against the inside of her chest. She had to admit that this was one of the most exhilarating moments of her life – where in respectable London would she be able to do this again?

Without warning, Matthew wrenched her close to him, and she threw her arms around his neck as her stockinged feet slid against the rough wood table. They were both gasping for breath, and Mary felt a wave of heat spread through her body – was it from the sweltering air in the general room and the vigorous motions of everyone around them, or was it from the way Matthew, sweat moistening his hair, was gazing sultrily at her?

"We really should do this more often," he said.

Mary straightened up and looked Matthew square in the eyes. "We're doing this on the next boat we get on."

"Of course we are," Matthew responded.

Just as Tom had done with Sybil, he dipped Mary back and passionately kissed her. Rowdy shouts erupted from the crowd, the Bransons and Strallans cheering just as much. No one in third-class had ever seen a gentleman and a lady frolic about in such disarray, and it was an underemphasis to say that they were genuinely impressed by their showing off.

"The chaps in first-class won't really know fun until they see this," Anthony said to Edith.

"Do you really consider discussions of mindless politics to be fun?" Edith inquired.

Anthony contemplated this for two seconds. "Not one bit," he answered decisively.

The tune ended in a mad rush of the bagpipes bellowing and the drum booming. Mary and Matthew clambered off the table, flushed and slightly off balance. They moved back to their table, and Mary made a greedy grab for her pint as Matthew collapsed into his chair. Tom was grinning, holding hands with Sybil as they rejoined with the Crawleys, Sybil still dissolving into laughter.

"That was brilliant, that was," Tom panted.

Mary nodded as she chugged her beer. "And remember, I'm still in a corset."

She slumped against Matthew, who was still breathing heavily from his exertions. Her beer splattered onto the floor. Sybil gave a little yelp and jumped back as some of it splashed onto her skirt.

"Sorry, Sybil," Mary said, smiling immaturely.

Sybil made an indifferent gesture. "What does it matter? I know how to get it out – Tom spills his all the time."

A freckled teenager offered Matthew an already lit cigarette, and he took it earnestly. "Wait until we tell your grandmother about this night," he laughed, the smouldering stub bobbing up and down between his teeth.

Mary's words were slightly slurred. "We'll need to hand her the smelling salts first."

"We'll need to give her an electric shock to start her heart again!" Sybil cackled.

At that moment, an excited squeal rose up from a ring of girls, and two boys leapt at something beneath the tables and chairs. There was a little  _squeak_  and a round brown rat with a fat tail scurried across the floor, practically bounding over Matthew's feet (to which Mary emitted a high-pitched shrill). The music stopped momentarily as roars of laughter pealed around the room and some of the men gave chase to the wet little rodent.

"That's the first one I've seen on this ship!" someone shouted.

Mary was looking rather disconcerted at the sight of the rat. Matthew gave her a reassuring nudge. "Now if that's the first time someone's seen a rat on  _Titanic_ , then steerage here really is better than on most other ships."

The musicians hollered and started up again. A couple of celebrators joined hands and began to dance in a circle, pulling unwitting people into the line. Edith jumped up and pulled Anthony up from his chair, disregarding his half-hearted refusals. She allowed herself to be linked into the line, pulling Anthony in with her. Tom and Sybil looked at each other, thinking the exact same thing, and joined in as well. Not ones to be willingly left out of something so obviously fun, Matthew and Mary leapt up and pushed themselves into the circle. They romped around the entire room, the music and shouting becoming the only sounds they heard, the whole world becoming nothing but a whirlwind. The evening seemed years away from ending, and they could all go on dancing and drinking forever. Every single person was smiling, eyes shining brighter than the stars in the night sky.

Yes, this certainly beat talking about politics in the smoke room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mixed sounds of happy shrieking and foreboding sobs*
> 
> (I really wish I could insert a scene like they did in Titanic, the sort of "meanwhile in the first-class smoking room" that's really quiet and dull compared to the party. That always makes me laugh for some reason – all the dancing and music and suddenly it's really quiet and they're talking about god-knows-what with business. You can only do so much with writing, I suppose.)
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. The ice warnings began to come early on the 13th since Titanic was heading towards the North Atlantic Shipping Lane. The pack ice was expected and in general disregarded, since pack ice it fairly small in size. As for icebergs, it was assumed that anything big enough to cause damage to ships would be easy to spot in time. The common practice for this time, believe it or not, was to pick up speed when going through icy zones in order to get out of them as quickly as possible (two sarcastic thumbs way up).
> 
> 2\. The conversation between Mr Ismay and Captain Smith was overheard by first-class passenger Elizabeth Lions. Technically, Ismay was only a passenger, so Captain Smith was not obligated in the least to take his suggestion, although some speculate that Ismay indirectly or directly threatened the captain if they did not pick up speed (there's not a lot of evidence to support this, though, so I did not include it in the conversation Edith overhears). Naturally, Ismay, who survived the sinking, refuted that implication that he goaded the captain into speeding up Titanic and possibly playing a major part in dooming the ship.
> 
> 3\. Daniel Buckley was an actual third-class passenger from Ireland. He reportedly escaped the sinking ship by sneaking into a lifeboat and letting some woman cover him with a shawl, disguising him. Later, he served in the first World War and was killed during the last months of the war.
> 
> 4\. Just as is depicted in Titanic, very energetic social gatherings did occur most nights in the third-class general room. It was one way that steerage made their own fun, with music, dancing, and of course there was plenty of beer to go around. During one such party, a rat did race across the floor, which really surprised a few people since rats were an uncommon sight onboard Titanic.


	7. To the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it – April 14th, 1912. What comes after this is going to be tough to write and even tougher to read. And once again, I am so sorry if what transpires makes your heart crumble in your chest and you curse my name for the end of time.
> 
> Please don't hate me, pretty please.

_April 14th_

Much to the entire party's displeasure, the night did not last forever. Somehow, they made it back into their beds, though most everyone wouldn't remember how they had done so. Before they knew it, morning had arrived, starting out almost identically to the previous days. The only noticeable difference today was the stark drop in temperature felt outside on the deck. The cold was palpable, almost biting, and  _Titanic_  crossed through strong winds and very large waves. Most passengers, however, were not troubled by the sudden change – what else was one to expect when on the north Atlantic at this time of year?

That morning, there was not much that differed in the daily routine. The church services for all three classes were held at half-past ten, and an impromptu hymn sing was arranged afterwards in the second-class dining room. For first-class, there was also to be a dinner held in the à la carte restaurant, in honor of Captain Smith, arranged by the Wideners.

"I'm planning on going," Anthony mentioned to Edith. "Will you?"

"I'd like to, yes," Edith said.

They were sitting in the enclosed promenade deck, bundled up in coats and gloves, close enough to the door to feel the interior heat. Today would probably be one taking place primarily indoors, though the sky was so blue and the sea so calm both the Strallans wanted to admire it for a bit.

"I didn't tell you this yesterday, but I saw the captain yesterday," Edith said. "In the lounge, after luncheon."

"Really? What was he doing, if not steering the ship?"

"He was with Mr Ismay. They were talking about  _Titanic_  making into New York on Tuesday."

"A day early?" Anthony shook his head in disbelief. "That's pretty senseless. Imagine the surprise on your grandmother's face if we came knocking on her door a day early."

"It  _would_  be terribly inconvenient," Edith conceded. "Which is why I wondered how Mr Ismay could make such a suggestion to the captain – it was really Mr Ismay doing the talking."

"He's not the one standing at the wheel of  _Titanic_ ," Anthony said with a snort. "Even I know the captain of a ship is the indisputable authority of all he surveys."

"It's not a very difficult thing to realize," Edith pointed out. "Hopefully the captain will ignore Mr Ismay's foolishness and keep the ship at the rate she's going."

Anthony shifted in his seat. "You know, I hear the crew've been getting quite a few ice warnings this morning already. They probably  _will_  try to go a bit faster, if only to get out of the danger zone."

Edith raised her eyebrows, skeptical. "I'd have thought that would be risky around ice."

"Maybe, but I'm sure they know what's best," Anthony said unassertively.

"It's backwards, not best."

Anthony shrugged and slumped in his deck chair. "Would your grandmother really be so put out if we came a day early? I know she'd be expecting us on time, but she seems to me to be the type of woman who can adapt easily to uncanny situations."

"Grandmama prepared for anything," Edith said. "I think she'd find it terrifically funny if we arrived sooner than anticipated. In all likelihood, she'd send a telegram to Granny proving to her that modern technology is capable of anything."

Anthony chuckled, understanding the amusement in Edith's declaration. "Well,  _Titanic_  isn't capable of flight just yet. I think they're going to install wings on her next time she moors in Belfast."

Edith giggled. "I do hope that we don't get to New York before we're scheduled to. I want to spend as much time on this ship as I possibly can."

"So do I – I'd spend the rest of the trip in this deck chair if I could," Anthony said, slouching even more in his seat.

Edith laughed again as Anthony closed his eyes and started to hum the hymn that the reverend had led them in during the service, _"For Those in Peril on the Sea."_

Whatever the crew decided to do would be the course  _Titanic_  took, and no passenger could do anything about it. In fact, what had been determined was this: steam was to be applied to more boilers, thus accelerating  _Titanic's_  speed.

* * *

The day wore on, and dusk finally fell. The lights on the ship began to blink on, and the night sky was quickly dotted with hundreds – thousands, it seemed to many – of glistening stars. It was the brightest night anyone had seen yet onboard  _Titanic,_ a remarkably clear atmosphere coupled with a flat calm on the sea that made it seem like the ship was floating in the sky, the stars reflected across the water. Dotted here and there were small lumps of ice that could barely be seen, for waves were not breaking at the base in this perfectly smooth sea. The decks were all but deserted, for there was still an immense chill in the air, more so now than in the morning. People instead drew close to the fires or heaters, keeping within the warm comfort of the lamplight.

When Sybil excused herself soon after her last plate at dinner, which had initially held a sumptious plum pudding, was cleared away, Tom knew exactly where she was going. He did not accompany her immediately, but he took a detour to the stateroom in order to fetch some warmer garments for both him and Sybil.

Stepping outside a few minutes later, the frigid air stung his cheeks – he might as well have been standing in the middle of a vast ice field. No wonder everyone was hiding inside. He imagined, later in the night, Matthew and Anthony to be by the fire in the smoke room, and Mary and Edith stirring steaming cups of hot cocoa; in their silk evening gowns the ladies must be chilled to the bone. Tom figured he'd have to make a point to Sybil about standing in the open deck without a coat, since the last thing she probably wanted was to arrive in New York red-nosed and sniffling.

Sybil heard footsteps draw nearer, and she knew who it was. She did not turn around: her head was upturned to the moonless sky, her eyes fixated on all of the crystalline lights winking down at her.

"It's lovely," she breathed. "The sky ... so many stars."

"That there are," Tom remarked. He stepped up next to her. "Aren't you cold at all?"

"A little," Sybil admitted. Her hands were clenched tightly into fists to keep the tips of her fingers warm.

"Here." Tom draped Sybil's coat over her shoulders. "You should have gone down to get that before. Unless you  _want_  to catch cold."

Sybil drew her coat closer around her. Her nose was already numb from being outside for some time. "After the cold I caught last November I probably should know better."

She leaned on the rail, her hands hanging out over the glassy ocean. "I wish I had this view in Dublin. If I could step outside whenever I wanted to see the endless sky, the sea, the stars …"

Tom smiled and followed her gaze upwards. Sybil felt a lump in her throat as she said, "Of course, I know that it's impossible. But right now I feel this … this  _magical_  feeling, and I don't want to forget what it's like. I want to carry it back home with me."

"What's it like, this magical feeling?" Tom asked.

Sybil turned to face him, and for a moment her expression flickered to make her resemble that young, lovestruck lady he had fallen for. "It's like the moment when I knew we were meant to be together. The moment I saw what was in your eyes, and I realized that it was the same as what I felt. That moment right after we were officially married, and then the moment right before we – well, before we made love for the very first time."

Both she and Tom smiled at the memories. Even now, recalling them in her mind, Sybil could feel a fire in her heart, one that not even the icy waters below them could hope to quell. She reached across for Tom's hand, squeezing it hard so she'd could be sure he'd feel it.

"It won't ever end," Tom said to her, in those dulcet tones that she often heard when they lay together in bed late at night. "Not as long as we're together."

Sybil nestled herself against Tom, tightening her arms around him. She sighed in contentment, knowing she'd never be wanting for anything as long as she had him close by.

Well, almost anything.

She shivered again, the coldness of the night still nipping at her face. Tom felt her shudder against his chest, and he cradled her in his arms, running his hands rapidly up and down her bare hands.

"We should go back in," he said. "It's only going to get colder. Besides," and he tilted her chin up so she was looking at him, "we have work to do that we've been putting off."

Her eyes shone with glee. "We do, don't we? And we only have a few more days aboard  _Titanic_."

She leaned her head back, Tom's face and the starry sky the only things in view. "I wish it warmer. I'd like to make love under the stars."

"That sounds quite romantic, but we wouldn't get very far along before we froze," Tom noted. "We'll open the porthole in the room – that way the stars will see us."

"That'll have to do," Sybil concurred.

And taking Tom by the hand, she lead him back inside, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.

* * *

It was now half-past eleven in the smoke room, and the men had just began their cigars and brandies. Some of these men had just come from the dinner party held for Captain Smith, which had been an excellent affair (although the Captain had to leave around nine, because duty called). Tonight, the food, music, and atmosphere had been some of the best yet – the first-class passengers had been served palatable dishes such as filet mignons lili, pâté du foie gras, and poached peaches in chartreuse jelly. The magnificent aura around the ship seemed too good to last.

Anthony and Matthew were sitting amongst other tailcoat-clad men around a table, cards in hand and cigars smoking. They were some of only a few passengers still awake – most of the other gentlemen and the ladies had all likely gone back to their staterooms and suites, either asleep or lying in wait for sleep. The fire in the grate was crackling, the dry conversation an indiscernable hum. Both Anthony and Matthew were thinking just how much more exciting the last night had been in the third-class general room; what anyone would have given for another night of heated dancing and reckless drinking. The brandy up here was still of a better quality than the stout had been, though that was not much compensation.

"Bitter day today, wasn't it gentlemen?" one white-haired investor commented, bringing up the age-old mention of weather to get everyone chatting again.

There was the general murmur of agreement. "I feel rather sorry for the lookouts tonight," Anthony said. "They must be half-frozen in that little basket."

"Don't get started on that, Sir Anthony," a rather stuffy man said sharply. "They took the positions of their free will; if they aren't prepared to face a cold front, then they're idiots for agreeing to do their job."

Matthew slapped two cards onto the surface of the table. "I might say the same about you sir concerning your entrance into this game. If you aren't prepared to play by the rules …"

He smiled smugly at the other man's curled upper lip. Anthony restrained a laugh by taking a sip of brandy. Matthew could be as scathing as Mary when he wanted to be.

The game went on like clockwork for a few more minutes, the silence broken only by the rustling of cards or a request to a passing steward for another brandy. Anthony began to wonder at what point in the game would it be acceptable to excuse himself and join Edith in the suite. He knew she was perfectly alright on her own, but all the same he did not want to leave her alone for long. Besides, the company of the strangers around him was making him more fatigued than the late hour.

"Does anyone else feel like the ship is going any faster?" someone asked.

"I don't think we're supposed to feel the change at all," Matthew said. "She's probably increased only a knot or two. It's only to clear the ice – that small of a change in speed won't get us to New York faster."

"And a good thing too," Anthony agreed.

"It won't be so much of a nuisance for us if  _Titanic_  docks early," one American businessman said. "As it turns out there is to be an assembly with Rockefeller on Wednesday night that I was sorry to miss, but if I can make it there in time, so much the better for my investors. My lawyers will argue for me that …"

He droned on and on, sounding increasingly like a self-centred bee. It wasn't long before Matthew and Anthony – perhaps every other man at the table – stopped listening to the businessman spout blather about his own enterprises. Matthew seriously began to consider desisting from the game as soon as he feasibly could, lest he start making sharp quips like Mary out of sheer boredom. He though to himself,  _how is it within the realm of possibility that such infamous, wealthy, influential men can be so lifeless?_

At that moment, every man at the table felt something bizarre: a grinding jar of the ship, as though skimming over a thousand small ridges.

There was a low sound, much like the growling of thunder before it crashes. Glasses rattled, spare cigars rolled about, and the cards on the table quivered. Every conversation in the room halted and every man went still in confusion at the unexpected vibrations. After days of steady motion, the jolt had felt like a sudden palpitation coming from the heart of the ship.

"What in God's name was that?" Anthony exclaimed.

"It must be something outside," someone else surmised.

Half of the men, including Matthew and Anthony, jumped to their feet and hastened through the doors. They passed quickly through the palm court and out onto the deck. Hardly two seconds after they had stepped outside, meeting the immensely chilly evening air, each one of them saw what had made the ship quiver so.

An iceberg towered over the deck, a huge pale blue mass, so close to the ship that anyone could thrust only their hand across the rail and still be able to touch it. It was near enough to graze the starboard side – perhaps it had; likely that had been the low rumbling noise everyone heard only seconds before. Ice crumbled from the berg and fell into the sea and onto the deck. A chunk skidded to a stop at Anthony's left foot.

Then, with hardly another sound, Titanic drifted past the iceberg, leaving it astern.

"Good God," Anthony breathed. "We hit that enormous thing!"

"What's happened to the ship?" someone asked. "Has any harm come to her?"

Matthew leaned against the railing and looked down to the bow. He could see only the reflection of the star-filled sky in the water, and if there was any serious damage he could not tell.

"It must only be a scrape to the hull," he concluded.

No one contradicted his statement. Titanic had continued her smooth course, albeit a little slower, and the only problem that was present was the smattering of ice across the promenade. And if any real damage  _had_ been done, then surely the vessel would stay afloat, at least long enough to make it with in reach of America.

The evening was brutally cold, as bad as any winter night might be. Each man's breath could be seen like a cloud of smoke from their cigars. For the moment, there did not seem to be anything worth looking at anymore. The berg was disappearing into nothingness, slated only to be a story relayed to the ones who had missed it in the morning, and soon it would be forgotten entirely.

One by one, the men wandered back into the smoking room to finish their drinks and games.

"There wasn't anything to that, was there?" Anthony asked a steward. "The ship is still on course?"

"I think we have no cause to worry," the lanky steward answered dutifully. "The situation should be assessed soon and the passengers will be informed to the condition in the morning."

"I imagine she'll be sent to the shipyard for repairs," said one man, "and then back to Belfast to fit for reinforcements."

"Only if Mr Ismay deems it worthwhile," said another. "Never mind what Mr Andrews decides."

Matthew remained silent, staring at his shallow glass of brandy. He had not seen anything wrong with the ship, but that did not mean he did not  _feel_ it. The impact had been sudden and enough to spook him, but what was more disturbing was the change in the motion now – or the overall lack of it, he was quick to realize.

The engines, without warning, had slowed and stopped, and the sensations that they had grown used to for the past several days had vanished.

He could not help but think about Mary's obscure premonition, about his own cold suspicion. Mary had thought something unforeseen would occur during the voyage, but whether it was good or bad she could not say at the time. Was this the trouble she had imagined them encountering? Surely there wasn't anything to worry about …

Whatever was about to transpire, Matthew decided he could not stay here in this hazy, smoke filled room. He felt the urgent need to be with Mary, to hold on to her hand, even if everything was perfectly fine. Because, in some dark part of his heart, he could feel that it wasn't.

"Gentlemen, I'll say goodnight now," Matthew said, standing up.

He walked back to his stateroom alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobbing intensifies*
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. Titanic was moving at 22 knots the evening of April 14, two knots below her full speed. The night was remembered by many as being remarkably clear, with hundreds of stars and a flat calm on the sea. In the crow's nest, Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee were keeping watch. At around 11:40 pm, Fleet spotted, seemingly out of nowhere, an iceberg right in the ship's path. Phoning the bridge, Fleet spat out the infamous words, "Iceberg right ahead!" The quartermaster turned the wheel "hard a-starboard" while First Officer Murdoch signalled to the engine room – first to "all stop" and then "all reverse full." At first there appeared to be an iminent head-on collision, but sluggishly the ship began to swing to the left. However, the ship's rudder was too small to clear the berg from the position they were in. A sudden jolt, and Titanic struck the berg, her steel plates buckling and rivets popping. The ship was opened up in five-watertight compartments. Many passengers who felt it described the impact as a "grinding jar."


	8. Unexpected Proceedings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay – deep breaths everyone. We can get through this. We just have to deal with all our feels. But calmly.
> 
> (Who am kidding? You all hate me, don't you?)

_April 14_ _th_ _– 23:41_

"Tom! Tom, wake up!"

Sybil was shaking him roughly by the arm, pulling him abruptly out of sleep. His eyes flew open, darting around the dark cabin like a moth. "What is it?" he panted.

She pointed down to the floor, where sat several heavy chunks of ice.

"They fell through the open porthole," she said, her voice high-pitched from the shock. She had been awakened by a dull thump, the sound of something scraping along the side of the ship, then the ice tumbling through the hole and bouncing off the dressing table. She had felt the berth tremble, the effects and furniture around the room rattling.

Tom pulled himself off the berth and stumbled across the room to turn on the overhead light. Tentatively, he reached down and took a piece of ice in his hands. It was the coldest thing he had ever touched in his life, immediately sending a jolt of pain through his fingertips, and he quickly tossed it back onto the floor.

"I – I felt the ship shudder," Sybil said. "It hit something!"

Tom gentle shushed his wife, trying to calm her. "I'm sure everything is alright."

"Tom, don't you realize what this means? The ship hit an iceberg!"

"Sybil, you can't get worked up about this," Tom said. "Let's go back to sleep, and we'll ask a steward what happened—"

"I know what happened!" Sybil snapped. "Don't you feel it? The ship has stopped."

Tom, already climbing back into the berth, halted. Sybil was right: the dancing motions, the vibrations that he had gotten so used to, had indeed stopped.

He got up and went to the door. Evidently, they were not the only ones to have been awakened by something; a few other people were poking their heads out the door, looking around in uncertainty. Someone at the end of the corridor was inquiring a steward, but Tom could not hear what they were saying. The steward was quick to dismiss the passenger, waving him off and taking a turn down the adjascent corridor.

Tom ducked back inside the room and turned the light off. "I don't think we should worry now," he said to Sybil as he felt his way back to the berth. "Let's try to sleep and maybe in the morning they'll have an answer to what happened."

He stooped down and picked up some pieces of ice, throwing them back out the porthole before they melted and dampened the floor. Sybil watched him methodically work, not coming back into bed until the floor was entirely cleaned up. After closing up the porthole, Tom lay back down on the bed, taking both of her hands in his.

The uncanny stillness, however, the unnatural standstill, had already gotten a bit on their nerves. Neither of them were able to get back to sound sleep. All Sybil could think about was the ice littering the floor, the ship trembling as if it were a living person, shivering in the icy waters.

* * *

Elsewhere on the ship, the impact with the berg had not gone unnoticed.

Edith, sitting up in bed with a book, had not been ignorant of the sudden change in  _Titanic's_  motion. Anthony was not back in the suite. She sat still for a few moments, feeling the ship slow and then stop altogether. She pulled on a dressing gown and opened the door to the corridor.

"Excuse me," she asked a passing steward. "Why have the engines stopped? I just felt a shudder."

"Not to worry ma'am," the steward replied. "We've likely dropped a propellor blade. That's probably the shudder you felt."

"I see," Edith murmured, not convinced at all that the steward knew what was going on.

"May I bring you anything?" the steward asked.

Edith shook her head. "No, thank you." She stepped back into the room and closed the door.

 _A propellor blade_? she thought. For some reason, that was not a good enough reason for the sensations she had felt.

Minutes later, Matthew walked past the Strallan's suite and walked into his own. Mary was still asleep in bed – she hadn't been awake to feel the ship shudder. Matthew took only a few minutes to get undressed and climb into bed, though his heart was pounding irregularly enough to keep him from resting. He lay as motionless as the  _Titanic_  on the still sea right now, staring up at the plain ceiling above the bed.

 _Should I tell Mary what happened?_  he wondered.  _Will it matter at all in the morning what we saw just now?_

As if she could sense him nearby, Mary stirred, sighing contently. Matthew watched her impassive face, her even breathing, the eyelashes fluttering … he wanted to kiss her badly, to grab for her hand, to tell her that everything would be fine. No, he wouldn't tell her what he had seen unless they became aware of a problem. Yet  _he_  couldn't let go of the feeling inside his body, and it was as cold as the night air. He didn't want to think anymore about the iceberg, about the jarring of the ship before her sudden stop, what was happening to the ship at this very moment …

Five minutes before twelve, Anthony came back to his suite, the card game having concluded without much fanfare. Edith was still awake, though she was not reading anything – she was waiting for him.

"Hello there Edith, I thought you'd be asleep by now."

"So did I," she replied, "but I felt something on the ship shake. The steward said it was probably a propellor blade, something to do with that."

Anthony rang for his valet, then turned to Edith; she could see the reflection of something out of the ordinary in his eyes. "It wasn't anything to do with the propellors. It was an iceberg. Matthew and I and the others in the smoke room, we saw it pass by the ship."

Edith's breath hitched in her throat. "Is the ship badly damaged?"

Anthony sighed. "I don't know. No one could see anything. I imagine they've stopped the ship to check where she was struck."

Turning away, Edith tried to understand the situation. "What – what's going to happen now?"

Anthony could not think of an answer. "I don't know. The steward said they'd figure out what's wrong and tell everybody in the morning."

Edith remained silent as Anthony shed his tailcoat and pulled on his pyjamas. She worried her lip at the thought of something dreadful happening without their knowing, happening right under their feet. Was it possible that an iceberg could tear right through the hull of  _Titanic_? But how could it – she was so strong, so perfectly made; nothing could best her. Edith lay back on the pillow and rested a hand over her eyes. She was fretting about something that did not need to be fretted about.

All she had to do was get some sleep, and when morning came everything would be alright. She'd be laughing at herself for being a bundle of nerves over nothing – doubtless Mary would as well if she found out. She turned over to go sleep just as Anthony climbed into bed next to her, giving her a delicate kiss on her forehead.

Matters, however, were not so rosy as she wanted to believe, for at that very moment, the ocean was flooding into the recesses of  _Titanic_  with all the rage of a torrent.

* * *

_April 15_ _th_ _– 00:15_

Like anyone who intends to sleep through the night and is woken up by unexpected (and unwanted) knocking at the door, Matthew felt rather irascible at being roused hardly a few minutes after midnight.

"Come in!" he called out.

Mary groaned as she was pulled from sleep. "Who is it?" she groused.

The door opened and a steward stepped in, turning on the electric lights without forewarning anyone. Hastily, Matthew slid out of bed and threw his dressing gown over his pyjamas, blinking from the sudden brightness. Mary turned to give the steward an acid glare – she did not buy a ticket on  _Titanic_  to be disrupted at some ungodly hour.

"Sorry to disturb you sir, but I have Captain's orders," the steward said, addressing Matthew.

Matthew felt his stomach drop. Any annoyance he had felt at the stewards prescence in his room melted away. "What is it?"

"There's a spot of trouble with the ship. Everyone is to put on warm clothing and their lifebelts, and we'll muster up on the boat deck."

Mary lifted herself off the bed. "Why? What's happened?"

The steward smiled to reassure her, but failed. "It's only a precaution ma'am. Please ring your help to assist you in getting suitably dressed, and I shall bring someone around to help you with your lifebelts."

He left abruptly, not bothering to close the door behind him. Outside, he and the other stewards could be heard knocking on doors and advising other passengers to don their lifebelts and warm clothing.

Matthew gave his wife a quick look of confoundment, then went to call for the servants. Mary stayed atop the bed, frowning. "Why didn't he tell us why in God's name we're being ordered to muster outside? I know as well as anyone that it's bloody cold tonight."

Matthew did not meet Mary's eyes. "I know why they're wanting us up with our lifebelts," he swallowed. "The ship hit an iceberg. I saw it with my own eyes. Just after the other men and myself went through to the smoke room."

Confusion turning to alarm, Mary's jaw went slack and her eyes bulged; it was a face of abject horror. "Do you mean – oh my God – no, this can't be happening—!"

"Mary please, you mustn't panic," Matthew said, leaning across the bed and taking her trembling hand. "You mustn't panic, not when there isn't any reason to—"

"No!" Mary cried, wrenching her hand back and holding it to her chest. "Don't you understand? That – that feeling I had the first, that  _omen_  of something that we were going to be trapped in the middle of – don't you see?  _This it it_!"

She gasped for breath. Matthew had never seen his wife so hysterical, and that made _him_  all the more afraid.

"You have to stay calm," he said to her, clutching her shoulders and looking hard into her eyes. "I'm certain – absolutely certain – that's it's just a precaution. They'll have us up there for a little while, maybe an hour at most, and then we'll be back down in here."

He was trying to sound optimistic, trying to keep her steady – if the other passengers saw her in this state they would surely panic as well – yet he felt just as frightened as she did. Just what had the iceberg done to the ship that even the first-class passengers were being woken up and mustered out on deck?

Neither he nor Mary had much more time to nurse what fears they had – Anna and Matthew's valet came up prompty and well aware of their midnight task.

"They had us up for a few minutes so we could be ready when you called us," Anna explained. "We need to dress warmly, it's very cold out."

"So I've been told," Mary muttered. Her voice still cracked a bit and her eyes were obviously redder than they normally would be, but she held herself aloof and Anna did not ask any questions. "Don't give me something too heavy, I'm tired enough as it is."

Throughout first class, the ladies and gentlemen were being dressed by their maids and valets as if it were already morning. So many did not understand why the sudden muster was taking place, and for those who did such as the Crawleys and the Strallans, they were uncertain of the extent of damage  _Titanic_  had taken. There were not many who hurried in dressing since they assumed they were being summoned as strictly a matter of form, and there were even those who refused to put on the lifebelts – including Mary.

"When I get up to the boat deck, I'll put it on," she said to the steward who was offering to help her. She hated the look and the feel of it; the lifebelt was cumbersome, and she could not think of it as an effective floatation device.

"Mary, you need to wear it," Matthew said.

Rolling her eyes, Mary took the lifebelt from the steward, but she still did not put it on. "I said I'd put it on when I absolutely needed to."

Matthew grabbed his own lifebelt from the other steward standing in the room, then he took Mary's and folded both clunky white things over his arm. "We'll put them on as soon as we get up to the boat deck, and I won't hear any more argument."

The stewards found no more reason to be in the Crawleys' suite and scurried out to help other passengers. Mary sighed and collapsed in a chair, rubbing her temple.

"I'm sorry, I know I ought to put it on. I just don't like the thought of wearing it – it's like we really  _are_  in danger. Why else do they have us wearing the stupid things?"

Matthew opened his mouth to offer her an explanation for wearing the lifebelts, but he could provide none that would convince her simultaneously that there was nothing amiss and that she should put it on now. "We need to go up now. Captain's orders, and I'll wager the stewards will come 'round and pull out anyone still inside."

Mary nodded and collected herself, taking a few long breaths before standing up. "Anna, turn the heaters on before coming out. I'd like a cup of tea when we come back."

The corridors outside were bustling with people trying to make sense of the disorganization; a good many were blinking sleepily and yawning, though others had been awake for a awhile, having stayed awake since the jarring of the ship out of curiousity. They were swathed in a mixture of night gowns, suits, pyjamas, dresses, fur coats, some wearing the lifebelts and some simply carrying them underarm. Even those who were wearing one didn't see the need; the ship appeared steady and calm, even if her passengers were in disarray. Stewards and stewardesses were swarming about, only stopping when a passenger demanded a reason for them being up – to which they replied, "I'll find out at once," or "Just remain calm."

Mary and Matthew managed to squeeze into one of the lifts going up to the boat deck. There, standing outside, there seemed to be even more disorder, with passengers standing about not knowing what to do, and the crew struggling to prepare the lifeboats. They were about as competent at the task as noblemen at farming. It was a rowdy scene with whistles blasting and officers shouting orders, and the flummoxed voices of the passengers.

"God, it's colder than I thought it would be!" Mary gasped. "I should have worn a hat."

Matthew watched the crew scuttle around the lifeboats, taking forever just to remove the coverings. "I don't think anybody knows what the hell is going on here."

Mary looked at the lifeboats with concern, shivering from the cold. "We won't really need those, will we?"

Like Mary, Matthew desperately hoped not one person would need to be placed in one, but if they were in the process of preparing them, the situation was becoming even more grave. "It's just standard proceedure, the law. They have to do it, regardless of any danger."

"Seems like an awful waste of energy." Mary folded her arms over her chest and tucked her chin into her coat. The air felt like it was eating away at her face, little by little. She moved to take her lifebelt from Matthew and started to put it on her, but an officer addressing the passengers halted her progress.

"Everybody back inside!" he yelled, motioning for the passengers to retreat from the deck. "Go down to the lounge and remain there! Do not go back to your rooms. Stay in the lounge and do not go back to your rooms!"

"Thank God," Mary muttered; she wasn't the only one to say so. It was far too noisy and crowded on the deck for there to be any order, and the cold probably wasn't helping anyone's spirits. She, Matthew, and almost all of the other people outside hustled back inside and went down the large staircase to the lounge to wait, wait for whatever procedures they would be forced to follow through with.

"Do you think we should find Edith and Anthony?" Matthew asked. "I'm sure they're around here somewhere."

There was a good chance that they were – it seemed that everyone from first-class was here, warming themselves up with a brandy or a coffee. If it weren't for everyone wearing fur coats and lifebelts it could have been mistaken to be just a few minutes after dinner. The band was playing strangely enough, which only added to the mystery – was there an emergency or no? Mary could hear a father promising his children that they'd be back in their beds well before breakfast. Mary hoped that she'd wake up in her bed right now and have all of this be nothing but a dream.

A hand reached out and touched her shoulder. It was Edith, and Anthony was just behind her. "There you two are," Edith said. "We thought you were up on deck."

"They just sent us back down," Mary explained. "Just as well – it was too cold and too noisy."

Both of the Strallans were already wearing their lifebelts. "Apparently they are the very latest thing this season," Anthony joked, fingering the straps at his waist.

"Oh, do stop," Mary moaned. "It's bad enough they want us to truss ourselves up without giving us any good explanation for it."

"They don't want to create a panic," Edith said. "I'm sure some have also realized it was an iceberg – you do know it was an—"

"Of course I do! Matthew told me," Mary snapped. "Yes, the ship struck ice, but how bad is the damage, that's what I want to know …"

She stopped suddenly, clamping a hand over her mouth before whirling around to Matthew. "Sybil and Tom! What's going on with them?"

"Mary, be calm. I'm sure they're also being roused and mustering up on their deck," Matthew said.

"How can  _you_  know that?" Mary had never felt so afraid for her sister and her husband as she did now. "They'll be doing things differently in their class, I'm sure. Whatever is happening to the ship I won't ignore them."

"Mary, what are you—?" Edith began.

Grasping her sister's arms tightly, Mary's voice went low and serious. "Listen to me. The ship has been damaged, enough for even us to be woken up and for them to start swinging those lifeboats out. If the ship is flooding then Sybil and Tom are in a worse position than we are, and I'm not going to let them be in that sort of danger. Sybil is our sister and Tom is her husband, and I'd throw myself overboard sooner than stand up here not knowing what's happening to them!"

She heaved back a sob. Edith did see how grave the situation was for Sybil and Tom. "But what can we possibly do? They'll be calling us back up to the boat deck any minute!"

Mary gulped. "We're going down to where they've been gathered and bringing them up here. And I don't give a damn if that's not allowed; they've already got us out of bed when we shouldn't be."

Edith looked behind her at Anthony and then over Mary's shoulder at Matthew. "She's right. They're family. We can't leave them."

"Then we'll all go," Matthew decided. "We have to be very quick; I don't think they're taking so long on the lifeboats anymore. And they'll be filling up fast."

"But where do we go to get down there?" Anthony asked. "I've only just managed to navigate this maze of a ship and the only way we can get to the second-class decks is by the crew passage. We can't afford to lose time by getting lost – Edith dear, where are you going?"

Edith had detached from the group and was chasing someone down – the rest recognized him as Mr Thomas Andrews.

"Mr Andrews! Mr Andrews!" Edith cried, reaching for the man's arm. Mr Andrews turned around and Edith could detect fear in his wide eyes. He looked far more fearful than anyone she had seen tonight.

"Lady Strallan? What is it?"

"Please, how can we get down to the second class deck?" she asked him.

"What?" Mr Andrews sputtered. "Why? You need to stay up  _here_  so you can get into a lifeboat—"

"I don't have time to tell you why. Just say how we can get down there as soon as possible."

Mr Andrews looked about nervously. Although he was not saying anything, Edith estimated that he knew the extent of  _Titanic_ 's damage. It was  _his_  ship after all.

"What's happening to the ship Mr Andrews?" she asked softly and hesitantly. "Please tell me the truth."

Mr Andrews inhaled a shaky breath. "We're sinking."

Edith's stomach lurched violently. "Are … are you certain?"

"I have no doubts," Mr Andrews said. He brought his voice down to a whisper so only Edith could hear him. "The iceberg breached too many compartments, and water's filling up quickly. I know it's hard to comprehend, but  _Titanic_  will sink, and fast."

Edith went frozen with the revelation that she was now standing inside a doomed ship. "How long have we got?" she asked.

Mr Andrews shook his head. "I can't say for sure. An hour maybe, two at most. We don't know when help is arriving. But please, don't spread the word about the ship going down. We can't have everyone panicking."

"Then you have to tell me  _right now_  how to get to second class," Edith pleaded.

To her relief, Mr Andrews yielded. "Alright. Go down to the end of the corridor and through the door marked  _crew passage_. Take the stairs down until you reach D deck – they'll be gathering them in the dining room and escorting them up a few at a time. If they aren't there then they're already up on their side of the boat deck."

"Thank you so much sir." Edith smiled despite knowing of the danger she realized everyone was now in.

"You'll have to be quick," Mr Andrews warned.

Edith nodded. "We will, I promise."

She hurried back to where the others were still standing.

"I know where to go," she told them. "But we have to hurry. We don't have a lot of time."

"What do you mean?" Anthony asked.

Edith paused, afraid to say the words herself. "The ship is sinking."

"That's impossible." Matthew could not accept that. "She can't sink, she's watertight—"

"Those compartments have been breached," Edith interrupted. "Mr Andrews knows his ship better than anyone – he wouldn't say so unless it were true."

"But is there help coming?" Anthony asked. "They have that wireless thing, surely there are other ships in the area."

Edith shook her head. That was the worst part: the uncertainty of a rescue ship. "He couldn't say for sure."

Fear gripped the hearts of those around her like a murderer's hand around a bare throat. No one seemed to be able to move or breath. How could it be possible: this grand ship termed 'unsinkable' was now doing what no one believed – what no one wanted to believe – she could do. Could it be that this trip, which had begun in triumph and afforded them such luxury and splendour, was now morphing into a single night of chaos? The ship still seemed so steady – her listing could not be discerned in the lounge – yet those who knew of her inevitable fate were aware they were standing at a precipice of life and death.

"Then we can't waste anytime," Mary declared, trying to conceal the tremor in her voice. "We have to find Sybil."

"And Tom," Edith reminded her.

Mary nodded. "Yes, and Tom. Then as soon as we find them we get up to the boat deck. Edith, lead the way."

* * *

Things in second-class had transpired much the same way as they had in first-class, though with much less propriety.

For the second time that night the Bransons suffered an unexpected awakening; this time, it was from the thundering pounding on their stateroom door. Neither of them had been asleep for very long – it was maybe only twenty minutes after Tom had cleaned up the ice chunks and threw them back to the sea – but the banging, which was rattling the door, nevertheless startled them.

"Huh?" grunted Tom. "Who is it?"

"Captain's orders!" shouted the steward on the other side. "Get dressed and put your lifebelts on!"

"What?" Sybil rubbed her face. "What does he mean?"

Tom stumbled out of bed and across to turn on the light. He threw the door open to where a whole bevy of stewards were knocking on doors, giving the same command to the other passengers.

"What's going on?" Tom saw that none of the stewards were stopping to answer any questions; they just kept on calling out "Put your lifebelts on! Everyone up on deck with your lifebelts on at once!"

Sybil leapt out of bed and crossed over to the wardrobe. Tom watched as she began pulling clothes out for the both of them, including their travelling coats. "Just put on a shirt and your trousers. I've got the coats. The lifebelts are at the bottom."

Tom dressed as quickly as his tired limbs could manage, wondering what in hell was going on. The ship had struck ice – he knew that much – but was there water coming in? Was that why the crew was gathering everybody up on deck? The door was still open, and he could see people dragging their feet and fiddling with the straps on their lifebelts; none of them seemed to have any clue as to why they were being roused in the middle of the night.

Sybil pulled a woollen dress over her head and handed Tom his shoes; he slid them on without tying them afterwards. Outside, he heard two officers hasten down the corridor.

"... and boiler room six is flooded eight feet above the plate. The mail hold is worse, already completely underwater," the younger one was saying to the other.

Tom poked his head out of the door, but the officers had already turned a corner towards the lifts, one still listing off what rooms were damaged.  _Underwater_? He wondered,  _the ship is underwater_?

Sybil had heard them talking as well. "That doesn't sound good."

Tom nodded absently. "That doesn't sound good at all. I guess we know now why they want us up on deck."

"Do you think they'll have us getting into lifeboats?"

"Maybe," Tom shrugged. "Though I don't think they'll put anyone from our class in before everyone from first-class is all snug and cozy."

Sybil's hands, which had been buttoning her coat, dropped to her sides. "That's … that's not right," she stammered. She clasped her head as she paced the cabin, seemingly racking her brains for something.

Tom looked at her with concern. "What? Sybil, what is it?"

"The boats. They're all up on the boat deck, I saw them, but … they can't possibly be enough for everyone on the ship. Maybe less than half. And if they put everyone in first-class in first, then there won't be any room for all the passengers in our class. And that means …"

Tom followed her train of thought. "That third-class doesn't stand a chance of getting into a lifeboat."

Sybil stepped back towards Tom and took both of her hands in his. "Tom, I know something terrible has happened to the ship. Why else are they making us put the lifebelts on? Why else are they having us muster at the lifeboats? You heard those officers – water's already up past the mail hold.."

"Do you think that we're sinking?" Tom asked her.

Sybil swallowed hard, her hands tightening around Tom's fingers. "I don't know. I don't feel anything out of the ordinary where we are. But if we are sinking, then …"

"Then third-class is in the worst possible position," Tom realized, his heart feeling like it had dropped out of his chest. "They're probably half-underwater right now."

Sybil's eyes were wide with alarm, but she held herself determined. "Tom, I'm doing this with or without your help, but I'm going down there."

"What?"

"They won't be able to get up to the deck, maybe until it's too late. Steerage is gated off from the rest of the ship, and I don't think these stewards are going to take pity on them before first-class are all in the boats. I can't just stand here while they're all crowded down there, wondering what the hell is going on and everyone is more concerned with getting the lords and ladies off first!"

Tom stared at his wife, utterly aghast. "Sybil, what do you think you can do about it? I know that you—"

"I don't care if I get in trouble!" Sybil cried. "If I have to rip the doors off their hinges, then I will. They have to have a chance to get out. If there's water coming in then they'll be the first ones to …"

Her voice broke with the perception of the freezing water flooding through the corridors down below, rising higher and higher until – no. She couldn't make herself think of it. How could  _Titanic_  be sinking? Nevertheless, she felt it in her gut: something dreadful was happening beneath their feet, and if no one was going to care about the poor families below decks, then what choice did they have? Sybil would never be the one to watch a catastrophe happen, not if she could help it.

"I'll come with you then," Tom said. "I'll not leave you alone down there."

Sybil heaved a sigh of relief, yet she could not help but fear for Tom's sake. She was aware she was putting herself in a precarious position simply by not following orders and going up to the boat deck, but having Tom follow her into the unknown … she knew she couldn't bear to live with herself if she was responsible for either of them getting into trouble. Especially since she didn't know what would be waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

"I think I know of a way we can go," she said, keeping her voice low. "Through Scotland Road – that's the crew passage at the side of the ship – down to the third-class dining room. We should be able to get around there."

Tom hadn't realized Sybil knew the winding corridors of the ship so well. "Did you bring a map of  _Titanic_  with you?"

"That's the way I came yesterday when I went to find the others," Sybil told him. "I'll bet all the stewards are going to be elsewhere, helping passengers with their lifebelts and such, so we won't be caught."

"I'm not so sure about that." Tom looked out the door, where the passengers were still fumbling with coats and hats and the stewards were practically throwing their lifebelts on. "It sounds like bedlam out there."

"Then no one will notice if we pop downstairs to check on things," Sybil said, sounding as nonchalant as if they were back at home.

"Alright." Tom took Sybil's hand in a gesture of faith, his faith in her. "Lead the way."

They hastened out of the cabin, keeping their heads down, hoping that no steward would realize they were not wearing their lifebelts – which were still sitting at the bottom of the wardrobe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *still sobbing in my corner*
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. I just want to make it clear that the attitude of the crewmen was not explicitly "Oh, we have to trap the steerage passengers while we save the rich folks." The result was little better, however. Since an emergency drill had never taken place, no one knew what to do or how to manage the passengers below decks, since everyone's priority seemed to be "save the rich folks." There were actually still crewmen who believed there were third-class lifeboats floating about somewhere. Nonetheless, part of the reason why third-class had so little chance of survival was because the crew did not know what they were doing.
> 
> 2\. By this time, most of the first-class passengers were aware that Titanic had collided with an iceberg (at first, they had assumed it was a problem with a propellor), though no one could say for sure what the extent of the damage was. Titanic was not listing that much, so when they were roused and ordered up to the boat deck, most just assumed it was a legal procedure and they'd be back in bed. However, Captain Smith was already making the decision to bring out the lifeboats, putting women and children in first. The first rocket was fired at 12:45.
> 
> 3\. The crew really did not have a clue how to handle the evacuation. I have no other words for this.


	9. Frantic Search

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, the pope was just in DC ... and in hindsight I probably should have went out and asked him to forgive me for what I am torturing you with. Just don't come at me with torches and pitchforks.

_00:45_

Tom and Sybil pushed through the crew door to the dimly lit passageway called Scotland Road, typically used only by the crew and some steerage passengers. Its design was, compared to the attractive first- and second-class portions of the ship, strictly utilitarian, with plain white doors and walls and bulky pipes running overhead. Some of the smaller doors led down to the boiler rooms, but most of the taller ones were either rooms for crew or third-class staterooms. And right now, it was far more chaotic than any other part of  _Titanic_.

The passengers, young and old, families and single travellers, were throwing around so many languages as they tried to understand what was going on. Some were running down the passageway carrying haphazardly-packed cardboard suitcases, sacks and clothing – much of it dripping wet. Some of them were carrying their luggage on their heads, as if afraid water would come flooding in here too. The stewards were pounding on closed doors, bellowing orders even to those who didn't appear to understand English well. They repeatedly shouted, "put your lifebelts on!" as they had done so with second class, but that was all they said to steerage; there was no call to muster up on deck.

Sybil looked up and down the corridor, trying to figure out which way to go. The passengers carrying their possessions were all running in one direction – and so they were running opposite of the incoming water. She guessed most would try to head for the main stairwell, but more likely than not they weren't letting people past the gates.

"We have to figure out another way to get them out of here," Sybil said.

Tom looked around. "Through the crew door and up to second-class? Where we just came from?"

Sybil shook her head. "No, that door's too narrow, and surely they'd be seen. The crew won't let them pass, I know it. We have to find a path where they can get up to the boat deck as quickly as possible."

Someone jostled Tom as he bolted down the hall, dragging along a soaking valise and a small boy. "One of the other stairwells, maybe?"

"Maybe …" Sybil trailed off, and Tom could see a hundred plans and ideas forming inside her head. Amidst the frenzy of Scotland Road and the slow expiration of the ship, she was still trying to approach things logically – probably one of the few who were.

"We need to get out of here, there's too many people," she said. "Let's find the main dining room, like I said before, and go from there."

She took his hand, pushing past clustered groups of frantic immigrants and travellers.  _To think they believed this ship would get them safely to America,_  she realized.  _How many of them actually know of how much trouble they're all in?_

No one stopped and asked if they were lost or what they were doing in steerage, despite the fact that they must have looked like they didn't belong. What caught some eyes, however, was the lack of lifebelts in their possession. One steward literally threw a pair of lifebelts at them, barking at them to follow orders, but they simply kept walking their way – they had no time to care about fitting one on. They made it to a short flight of stairs which Sybil knew would lead them down to the third-class dining saloon, more specifically the one where the single men and the men travelling in groups ate in.

Both of them ran into the right wing of the dining saloon. It was nearly empty, except for two or three young men stuffing what food they could find in their jacket pockets and rucksacks.

Tom turned his whole body as he looked around the room, crowded with long tables and wooden chairs. "Where do we go from here?"

Now Sybil wasn't sure – she realized that the way she had come before was not the same route they had taken just now; they must have went the opposite direction down Scotland Road. She saw the narrow doors that probably led into the pantries, then one slightly ajar on the other side, through which she could see more long tables and a disarray of chairs and food trolleys. That seemed right now the only way to go.

"Through here," she said, pulling Tom by the arm through to the larger dining room. It seemed colder in here, and she knew that they were heading closer and closer to where the water was coming in.

_I can't let a little water stop me_ , she said to herself.

There was no other exit from the forward dining saloon however, apart from the stairs leading back up to the third-class passageway. Sybil suddenly began to wonder if she was becoming disoriented because of something, either from standing awake in the middle of the night or the panic slowly building up in her.

"Oh, God," she breathed. "I don't – I don't know—"

Tom shushed her gently. "It's alright. We'll find another way. We'll head back up that way and go down the other way."

Sybil nodded, allowing Tom to take her by the hand and up the stairs. Now they were on the other side of the ship, the starboard side, and there were still quite a few people seething about. Tom looked to each end of the long corridor, stretching out nearly endlessly in front of them.

"Now what?" He could not tell which way the water would be coming in.

Sybil gulped, the subtle unsteady pulsing of her heart telling her that she was beginning to discourage. "I don't know."

_Should we go back?_ she wondered anxiously.  _This was a bad idea, wasn't it? And it's all my fault!_

Her silent hysteria did not go unnoticed by Tom. She felt his hands on her shoulders, his eyes looking into hers as she looked down. "Sybil, what are you thinking? Tell me."

"I'm thinking this was a mistake," she said, admitting to her own foolishness. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing, I don't know where to go – I think we should go back."

"What? Sybil, you're not—"

She nodded. "It's not worth it if something happens to us … or to you."

Tom shook his head. "Sybil, I don't matter in this—"

"Yes you do!" she practically screamed at him. Several people glanced at them, nonplussed at her outburst. Tom stared at his wife, his own distress becoming apparent.

And suddenly he pulled her close to him, his arms wrapping around her back and covering the back of her head. Sybil, taken by surprise, gasped aloud, which came out sounding much like a sob.

"I'm sorry, Sybil. I truly am,  _a_ _mhuirnín._  We'll go back. I promise, we'll find a way," Tom crooned. "We'll be alright."

Sybil, her fingers latched around Tom's coat, nodded, her chin brushing against the coarse fabric over his shoulder. Right now, that was all she could go on – Tom's promise that they'd find a way out. They  _had_  to.

A steward was walking towards them, or in their direction, and Tom seized the opportunity. "Excuse me, sir – sir!"

The steward stopped and regarded Tom with narrow eyes, as if Tom had the unwarranted nerve to speak to him.

"Can you tell us how to get to the second-class deck?" Tom asked.

The steward snorted. "You think you can get anywhere by asking stupid questions like that? You aren't allowed up there under  _any_  circumstances."

Tom frowned with confusion. "What – no, we're not third-class—"

"Oh, you aren't?" The steward glared suspiciously, looking like a judge who didn't believe a convict's account. "Then what are you doing here,  _in third-class_ , may I ask?"

"I swear, we have second-class tickets. Please, there's not much time!" Tom begged.

"It's true!" Sybil cried.

"Enough! Both of you, get your lifebelts on and go to the main stairwell!" The steward snapped.

"We aren't steerage!" Tom all but screamed.

"Just shut it, you!" The steward shouted back, jabbing a gnarled finger into Tom's chest.

Sybil looked between the two men, more frightened than she had felt at any other point this night.  _He thinks we're third-class because Tom's Irish_ , she figured.  _And with what we're wearing, we don't seem so out of place as I had thought._

Her hypothesis seemed correct. "I'm telling you,  _both_  of us are second-class passengers. Now for God's sake, will you tell us how to get back up there?" Tom cried.

"Don't think you can get away with this, you Irish scumbag!" the steward snarled.

Tom lunged, ramming his fist into the steward's face. He stumbled back, clutching his nose, and trickles of blood streamed between his fingers. But he recovered quickly and countered the attack, tackling Tom and pining him against the wall. The passengers surrounding them either stood to watch the scene or ran away as fast as they could. Another steward, seeing his coworker grapple a seemingly unruly passenger, dropped the stack of lifebelts in his arms and rushed over to aid him. He dashed towards Tom, who was trying to escape the grasp of the first one, and Sybil grabbed for for his arm, tugging at it as she tried to pull him away.

"Stop it!" she screamed. "Stop it, damn you!"

The steward pushed her off of him, but she threw herself at him again, grappling with him before he put his hands on Tom. The bleeding steward was holding Tom to the floor, and both appeared to be trying to knock the other one unconscious.

"Get off me, you bitch!" the second steward growled, rounding back on Sybil.

"Bastard!" Tom screeched. It was the last thing out of his mouth before the steward raised him by his shoulders and severely jostled him once, his head smacking against the floor.

"Tom!" Sybil instinctively shouted.

_Oh God!_ her mind screamed.  _Oh God, no!_   _This is all my fault!_

The steward shoved her against the wall, frenetically saying to her, "Just calm down, miss, calm down now." Too angry to even consider his request, Sybil retaliated by swinging her hands wildly at his face. The other steward, blood staining the front of his starched white jacket, jumped up and pummeled her in the stomach, knocking the wind completely out of her.

The blow stunned her, and she slumped against the wall, clutching herself where the steward had struck her. Her vision began to blur, the faces of the people standing directly in front of her turning into fleshy smears. The whole world seemed to move slower than reality.

"What the hell, Lawrence?" the second steward said to the blood-covered one, who was rubbing a hand against his jaw. "What was that for?"

"Deliberately disobeying orders," was the blunt answer.

Their voices were becoming indistinct to Sybil, as if she was listening to their conversation from underwater. Her head began to reel as she gasped desperately for breath, to no effect. She looked to Tom, lying motionless on the ground next to her.  _No, not now, please no ... this can't happen now ..._

She blacked out entirely before her body slid to the floor.

* * *

Edith burst first through the door leading out to a corridor of second-class cabins, Mary following right after her; Matthew and Anthony were a few seconds behind them.

"Thank God," Edith panted, "this seems to be the right deck."

"Well, good," Mary said, leaning against the wall. "But which way to the dining room?"

"Right, I think," Edith said.

"You think?" Mary repeated.

Edith rounded on Mary. "Are you honestly doubting me at a time like this?"

Mary opened her mouth to snap something crass at Edith, but Matthew held her back. "This isn't the time to bicker. If we go right and come to a dead end then we go the other way, simple as that."

"This isn't a matter of Edith being right or wrong," Mary stated. "It's a matter of getting to Sybil and Tom as quickly as possible."

Starting a quarrel with Edith was the last thing she – or anyone else – needed at the moment. With each passing minute she knew the water down below would be coming in faster, and certainly by this time the crew were beginning to load the passengers into the lifeboats. Time, she knew unconsciously, was not something they had a lot of tonight.

"Then let's get moving." Edith started down towards the right end of the corridor, the others following her once more.

The halls of second-class were far less organized than in first-class. People were having trouble managing the straps of their lifebelts, struggling to adjust them to fit themselves or their companions. Some had a few pieces of luggage with them, crowding the narrow aisles even more. The Strallans and the Crawleys pushed past those huddled against the walls, the mothers and fathers trying to coax the children into being quiet, the stewards telling everyone to wait just a little longer and not to panic.

"They're not going about this well, are they?" Matthew muttered.

Mary was looking agitatedly around her, scanning dozens of unfamiliar faces, all wearing the same expression. Her own was one of desperation, exhibiting her fear that something had happened to her family; the though was making her weak at the knees.  _When this is all over, I'm going to wring their necks for making me fuss like this_ , she thought.

She  _would_  find them here, she convinced herself over and over in her mind. Sybil and Tom  _would_  be found, and together they'd make for the boat deck and get in a lifeboat. Whatever happened afterward was yet to be seen, but as long as everyone was together, they'd be alright. Mary had to keep believing that, reassuring that to herself – what other hope did she have to go on?

"Mary, keep looking for them down here," Matthew told her. "I'll ask the stewards if they saw them at all."

"You should ask which is their cabin," Mary advised, "just so that's one more place we can check."

"I'd be shocked if they hadn't followed captain's orders and left their cabin," Matthew said, "but I'll ask anyway."

He disappeared behind a mass of bewildered passengers. Mary kept pushing around, urgently calling out Sybil's name. There were so many people – would they be able to find the Bransons at all? A large number of passengers were beginning to move up the stairs; the lifeboats were being loaded now. Edith, closest to the stairs, saw the crewmen and attendants ushering people up to the boat deck. Could they already be up on deck, preparing to step into a lifeboat?

"Should one of us go up to the deck and look for them?" she asked.

Anthony, standing next to her, looked at the throng crowding the doors to the deck. "If we do that, we won't be able to get back down. They're aren't letting anyone go back to their rooms for anything."

Edith caught sight of Mary still rooting around for Sybil, and suddenly Edith realized she was seeing something for the first time: the sight of Mary scared. That familiar, arrogant curl of her lips, the perfectly arched brows, a figure embodying pride and elegance – all of that was gone and replaced with a shadow of fear. Mary's dark eyes were exuding complete desperation, as if she was already losing hope of finding Sybil safe. That in turn made Edith realize her own awful fright – what if they never found Sybil and Tom in the middle of this havoc? Where would they end up? It was the uncertainty of where they were, if they were already in a lifeboat or still inside the ship, lost in the mayhem, that sent a shared feeling of cold dread through both Edith and Mary.

All they could hope for was that Tom and Sybil were still together.

Suddenly, Edith remembered something that Sybil had mentioned to her in passing the night the Bransons had dined with them: they had been standing in the palm room, tea and coffee in hand, and they were discussing, naturally, how they found  _Titanic_  to be. And what Sybil had said had been disregarded, but now her statement chilled Edith to the bone.

"… but I do find it odd that there aren't very many lifeboats. There only seemed enough for about half of everyone on the ship …"

That revelation made matters far more calamitous – and the time they had all the more critical.

"Mary? Mary!" Edith cried out. She did not hesitate to shove several people out of her way so she could get to where Mary was standing.

"Edith? What is it now?" Mary asked.

"We need to look elsewhere for them," Edith said. "We don't have much time, and … the lifeboats—"

"What about them?" Mary interrupted.

"Don't you remember Sybil telling us that night? There aren't enough of them, only enough for maybe half of the ship." Edith grasped Mary's arm as if to force her to understand, but from the way Mary's face suddenly drained of blood, she comprehended well enough.

"Do you mean – oh my God …" She felt like someone had knocked the breath out of her.  _We're in the middle of the freezing-cold ocean, and God knows when help is going to arrive. The ship has only a few hours before it sinks, and there aren't enough lifeboats for everyone on board. That means … half of the people on this ship are going to die._

This was the complication no one had foreseen. For each minute they took in their fruitless search, the further  _Titanic_  would be submerged, and one by one the lifeboats would be filled. Even just the entirety of first-class would take up a substantial number of boats, and right now they seemed to be loading first and second class at the same time. If they didn't locate the Bransons soon and get up to the boat deck quickly, they would lose their chances of getting into a boat together.

"Edith, go up to the boat deck and try to find them there. If – when you do, wait for Matthew and I. Try to hold a lifeboat for everyone, if it's at all possible," Mary instructed.

"What if they're already in a boat?"

"Then leave them be, for heaven's sake! If that's the case, wait for us then as well."

Slowly, Edith nodded, though she did not appear to like the plan that Mary had of dividing up again. "But where are you and Matthew going?"

"We'll stay down here and try to find them. We won't take more than half an hour, I promise. We'll come straight up."

Edith still looked uncertain, but there was no time to think of a better plan – though perhaps there was no better plan concievable. She nodded again. "Alright. We'll wait for you by stairs."

She turned away to go back to Anthony, but Mary's hand reached out and locked around her arm.

"Mary? What is it?"

For a few seconds, Mary didn't seem to be able to say anything at all. It was an indescribable sensation that she had just felt; it had told her to hold onto her sister one last time. She should have felt incredibly mad for such an act – here she was, grasping the arm of the sister whom in years past she could hardly stand the sight of – and yet somehow, nothing of their past dissension mattered tonight. All of them were in the most unimaginable danger, and what did feuds between sisters matter when their lives were in peril?

"Just … please be safe," Mary said softly, looking into Edith's eyes with all of the concern that she could possibly convey.

"Oh, Mary," Edith murmured desolately.

They came together in such a loving embrace that even their parents would not recognize it was them. It was short, not going on for longer than ten seconds, and it seemed shorter for the both of them. No amount of time would seem enough for them to console each other, for under what circumstances would they meet again?

"We'll find Sybil," Edith promised Mary. "We can't give up now."

Mary nodded, her chin rubbing against Edith's shoulder. "I know. We'll find her." Saying those words, and to hear Edith solace her, was all she could do to not lose heart, to not fall to the ground in a heap of misery.

When they separated, they did not give another moment to nurse their distress. Edith hastily made her way back to where Anthony was waiting, leaving Mary standing in the middle of the room. She inhaled a shaky breath, wringing her clammy hands in a feeble attempt to compose herself. She was certainly not the only emotional one here, but to lose her head in this situation would not prove helpful in getting off the ship.

A gentle hand touched her arm. It was Matthew. "Are you alright?"

Mary nodded yes, though she felt much the opposite. Her eyes dropped down to Matthew's hand resting on her arm. "What did you find out?"

"I figured out where their stateroom is," he said. "But the steward said they had just gone down through all the cabins and gotten out anyone still in there. Then they locked the doors so people wouldn't come back for their things. Sybil and Tom shouldn't still be down there."

Mary heaved a frustrated sigh. "They had better be up on deck!"

"I'm sure they are," Matthew said. "I'm sure they got up there quickly and are getting ready to go into the boats." He had to work hard to conceal the wavering of his voice, because how could he know for sure?

Mary nodded, just to make herself feel better. "At any rate, we should leave no stone unturned. Don't you think we ought to go down to their cabin, just to check around? What if they've gotten lost? What if—?"

"Mary, please," Matthew hushed, hoping she would not work herself up again. "We'll go down and look, but I'm certain they're already up on deck."

"God, I hope so," Mary said. "I can't help but worry that they aren't – it's almost as if I can feel that something's happened to Sybil, and Tom with her …"

Matthew leaned his head forward, meeting Mary's gaze directly. He knew he might not be able to say anything to put her mind at rest, not until Sybil and Tom were in her line of sight. All he could do was hope to convince her to stay strong, to believe in her heart that her sister and brother-in-law  _were_  out of harm's way. He had to believe it too, for it really was hard not to be worried for their safety.

"Listen to me, Mary. I know you don't feel like you can be brave right now – but you  _are_. You have to remember that, now more than ever."

"I don't feel brave at all, though," Mary whimpered. "I'm more scared than I've ever felt before."

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be scared. I know you can't help it. I'm just as scared as you are," Matthew admitted. "But we need to have courage as well. We'll brave this storm together, just as we always have … and always will."

His tender words were all that Mary needed to hear now, and oh, how she wanted to live up to them. She felt no less distraught than she did before, but if he believed that she had the strength to face what the night would bring, then she had to prove him right. After all, she might be her sister's only hope.

She had to think hard as to where Sybil and Tom might go, if not up to the deck with their lifebelts. The ship was in the middle of an emergency; there were only so many places they could be.

The answer came to her within seconds.

"Third class," was all she had to say.

* * *

As Mary and Matthew raced for the lower decks, Edith and Anthony joined the slow march up the stairs to the boat deck. The reluctance of the bleary-eyed passengers was understandable, although tiresome for the crew trying to get them to cooperate. They were all aware the lifeboats were being prepared to be loaded and lowered to sea, but why would anyone leave this warm, comfortable ship for a clumsy little boat. Many still thought that it was merely formal precaution being taken; they'd rowed out to sea a short way away, wait a bit, then brought back to the ship when the danger was righted. No one was going to inform them of the truth – they were unfazed now in their ignorant state, and that was how it had to stay. There was  _not_  going to be a panic, not while they could help it.

And yet, the trouble with  _Titanic_  was slowly becoming apparent. Anthony himself noticed, though he was amazed he had discerned it, the stairs feeling a bit out of place as he climbed up them. It felt that he was having to keep mindful of where he was placing his foot on the steps. He thought, either he was growing into a wary old man or the ship was listing.

Outside on the deck, the slanting of the ship was a bit more apparent. The deck was not so level now, and it was tilting a little towards the bow. But the night did not hint at the misfortune  _Titanic_  was afflicted with: the sky was still shining with hundreds of stars and the sea was perfectly smooth. What few little lumps of dark ice still wafted along were nearly invisible. On one side of the deck the ship's band was playing ragtime, as if it were a normal evening, though it was anything but.

"Odd to hear such cheerful music at a time like this," Anthony remarked.

Edith shuddered from the rush of cold air that she had met upon making it up to the deck and hurriedly buttoned her coat. "I suppose it's to keep everyone calm."

The matter for now was not in keeping the people calm, but convincing them that getting into the lifeboats was in their best interests. Edith and Anthony could see a couple lifeboats bobbing up and down in the black water, and there were still more being loaded, painstakingly slowly. All across the ship the shouts of "Women and children first!" rang out, and those were the passengers being lifted and pushed into the boats swinging dizzily over the sea.

"Women and children first," Edith repeated under her breath. "Do they mean to get them all into the boats before the men, or women and children close by and men if there's still room?"

"It seems they're going about it both ways," Anthony realized.

Some of the boats in the water had both men and women, others just women and children. The officers on the port side were strictly enforcing the order, pushing men back and pulling wives away from their husbands. That seemed to be the real difficulty tonight – splitting apart the couples and the fathers from their children.

The deck slowly became more crowded as more passengers emerged from both first and second class, but Edith and Anthony pushed their way up and down the deck, going along the starboard side first, getting as close to the bulwark as they possibly could to see if Sybil and Tom were in one already. It was hard to see seventy feet down to the water though, and even Edith had to strain her eyes. But after nearly ten minutes of searching the deck and the boats, the Bransons were still missing.

"They're only letting women on port side," Anthony said. "I'd think they would be on the side that would allow them to go together."

"I thought so too," Edith said. "But let's try the other side. We'll probably find Tom still on deck."

They went around the edge of the deck overlooking the stern, but as they turned the corner to the port side, a steward stepped right in their way.

"Sir, I ought to tell you, it's women only on this side of the deck—!" he said.

"I know, goddamn it!" Anthony snapped. Edith jumped a little at hearing him raise his voice. The steward reeled back and scampered away.

Anthony sighed, his forehead creasing rather painfully. He leaned against one of the benches, trying to collect himself. "I'm sorry. That was rather rude of me, wasn't it?"

Edith stood at his side, her arms crossed in front of her and her hands tucked into her sleeves to keep them warm. She knew nothing she could say would make anything easier on him. She felt helpless, wordlessly watching him inhale shakily. In the half-hour or so that they had been awake, his entire self appeared to have aged ten years.

Anthony straightened himself, and he looked towards one of the lifeboats; one woman was flatly refusing to get into the boat without the company of her husband. The officer, who had evidently attempted to persuade her to get in by herself, shrugged his shoulders and gave the command to lower away. He noticed the boat was hardly filled, not by half, but the rule this officer seemed to be enforcing was 'women and children only.'

"Edith, this … this is hard for me to ask of you," he said, trying to keep the tremour in his voice under control. "When the time comes to get into a lifeboat, and they don't allow me in, promise me that you will get in alone."

"No," Edith said resolutely.

"You must, if there isn't another way," Anthony pressed on. "At the rate they're filling them they'll all be lowered down before long. There aren't so many as there might seem. I don't know when they'll let the men get into boats, but—"

"Anthony, please stop saying such things," Edith entreated.

Of course Anthony did not want to say such things to her, but he had to – she had to understand he wouldn't let her stay on this doomed ship if there was a chance for her to be saved. "Edith, you must listen to me. You heard Mr Andrews yourself, there won't be much time left. Once the third-class passengers come up there'll be such a commotion and you may not get a seat then."

"Do you think I don't see that?" Edith's eyes bored hard into Anthony's. "But either I get into a lifeboat with you or not at all. Surely they won't object to someone like you getting in."

Anthony gave a short, humourless laugh. "You mean an old codger like myself?"

Edith nodded aggressively. "Yes, an old codger like yourself. It would be absolutely vulgar of them if they refused to allow an old gentleman to get in."

"I believe that, but surely they'd put the younger men in first, so there'd be able-bodied men that could row. And there are plenty of  _them_  around."

"Well, if you aren't going to get in, neither will I," Edith stood firm. "I won't leave you alone here, not knowing what will happen to you. Wherever you go, I go too."

"Please be reasonable, Edith …" Anthony started again.

"Don't argue with me, Anthony; you know it won't do you any good."

Anthony knew quite well that he'd be on the losing side if he argued with Edith. She would forever remain adamant that she leave with him, if she were to leave at all. He sighed with resignation – and yet he felt relief. Both he and Edith were too familiar with the sensation of being alone, so how could he bear to watch her be lowered down to the dark ocean, shivering in a cumbersome little keel, just as the husbands left behind waved glumly to their fur-swathed wives sitting and quivering as their boat scraped against the hull of the ship? They had only consented to separate because they were still under the impression that they were coming back. But as he and Edith knew the horrible truth, it would break his own old heart to leave her alone, and surely it would shatter hers.

"I won't leave you, my sweet one," he promised. "Even if those scurvy drill sergeants try to pull you away from me – we'll make it off together."

Edith smiled up at him, her hazel eyes misty. They looked at each other with such sadness, owing to the awareness both had come to: either they would both enter a lifeboat or not at all.

"Right then," Edith managed to say. "Now, let's find Sybil and Tom first. When we get off this ship, it'll be all of us including. It can't be any other way."

* * *

_Ice cold water_.

That was what forced Sybil from her stupor. It was like a mad dog biting at her leg, sending a sharp sting up and down the whole limb. It touched her cheek and lapped around her fingers, and she felt all of its bitter cold through her unconsciousness.

She abruptly came to, her heart racing and a startled gasp escaping her lips. She felt just as she had upon waking up from the nightmare she had suffered on her first night on  _Titanic_ – it seemed like weeks ago. She had forgotten it entirely, but now it had returned, only now the situation was vastly different.

Sybil was not lying in her warm berth in her cozy little cabin with Tom by her side. Instead, she was now sprawled out across the floor of a narrow stateroom, two bunks lined on each wall. A tiny sink was situated across from the door, and above the sink was a small porthole. There wasn't anything to see outside the porthole, except for the turbid sight of blue that came from being beneath the surface of the ocean.

And creeping under the door, almost silently, was a shallow stream of ice cold water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screaming madly*
> 
> Okay, yes I realize I am a horrible person for hurting our babies, yes I realize I could go the easy way and just have them all get into lifeboats and survive, no that is not what my brain wants to happen.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. If the crew were ill-organized in mustering the first and second class, then things were haphazard at best in third class. There was the challenge of getting the 700 or so passengers up out of bed and gathering them in the general room with their lifebelts. Of course, there was the language barrier, the fact that the rooms in the lowest decks were already well flooded, and that no one had given official orders as to when to let people out. Several gates were indeed locked, and stewards were giving mixed orders, telling people to come or go back, but the general was that they were still trying to keep steerage passengers isolated from the rest of the ship as they had done so for the entire trip. This caused incredible confusion and chaos for the third-class passengers, who were probably the only ones really aware of the flooding inside the ship.
> 
> 2\. Anti-Irish sentiment was likely still prevalent around this time, and a large number of Irish were travelling in steerage – thus I don't believe it would be unlikely for someone to assume Tom was a third-class passenger judged solely on his accent.
> 
> 3\. Titanic carried 20 lifeboats which had weight capacities of around 60-70 adults. Altogether, 1,178 people could fit into the boats, but the passengers and crew on the maiden voyage was around 2,223 (Titanic had a maximum capacity of 3,327 people). During the evacuation, the crew was poorly trained in using the davits and were concerned that the boats would buckle if filled to capacity. Thus most boats were filled only halfway, primarily with women and children. One lifeboat was lowered to the water with only 12 in. Besides that, there were some lifeboats and collapsibles that were not loaded in time and were still on the ship when she sank.
> 
> 4\. Edith and Anthony's little heart-to-heart is based off the story of Isidore and Ida Straus. Passenger testimonies told that Ida had one foot in the lifeboat when she stepped back out and crossed the deck to her husband. She said to him "wherever you go, I go." One passenger tried to convince Isidore that the officers might let an old gentlemen into the boats, but Isidore refused to go "before the other men." Both Ida and Isidore perished that night.


	10. Rising Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Okay, I think I should give you fair warning ... you'll probably hate my guts after this chapter. Not spoiling anything, just ... you might want to grab that entire bottle of wine. You're going to need it. (Does it actually help for things like this? I don't drink at all.)

_1:15_

The previous night, when Sybil had secretively led them to third-class, the scene that the Crawleys had come to had been a surprise to behold, but it had been one of high spirits and gaiety. What was in front of them tonight, unfolding behind a gate locked shut, could not have been more dissimilar.

The clamour could be heard even before they came in sight of the gate. It was the confusing and terrifying sound of people calling out in a multitude of languages, pleading for the stewards guarding the gates to let them out. Those three or four stewards standing in front of the gates were repeatedly and petulantly telling them to wait, that it wasn't time to go up to the boats, so many other pointless ordinances that it was no wonder the trapped passengers were losing their patience. They crowded against the metal gates, begging and yelling obscenities, some putting their hands in between the slats to reach for the lock, though the key was within possession of one of the stewards. So many people clogged the stairwell, pressing forward in hopes of being among the first to be released once the stewards permitted it. That time, however, was not in sight.

Tracing the sounds of the commotion, Mary and Matthew located the entrance to the main stairwell. The stewards standing guard looked up at them, rather surprised at how a couple of first-class passengers had figured out how to get down to the third-class stairwell.

"What are you doing here?" one of them asked. "This certainly isn't the way to the boat deck. Here, I'll lead you up there …"

He made to push them back down the hallway, but Mary and Matthew stood their ground.

"We aren't going anywhere!" Mary claimed. "Why in God's name aren't you letting those people up? The ship's in the middle of an emergency!"

"We can't do anything until we hear official orders to let them out," the steward said automatically, as if he had given that answer a hundred times before. Then, quickly, he looked suspiciously up at Mary. "What are you on about an emergency?"

Mary stared at the steward in complete disbelief. "Haven't you realized it? The ship's sinking!"

"Madam, there's nothing to worry about," another steward said, stepping forward, overly confident that Mary would believe him. "Now, this isn't your place, you have to be up on deck—"

"I've told you I'm not going anywhere!" she snapped.

She was horribly apalled at the scene before her. There were so many people, clustered together in the stairwell, and the strutting men in front of them were the only ones keeping them from having a chance of getting in a lifeboat. Did they still not believe the ship was going under, perhaps in a matter of hours? The sopping wet clothes of some of the passengers standing around was a testament to the encroaching water. What did propriety and law matter now that people's lives were at risk? Mary felt as if she wanted to ram the stewards' heads in between the lengths of steel that obstructed the passengers' way to the deck. She had never before thought twice about the practices in place that kept third-class isolated from cabin passengers, but now that lives were on the line and those abysmal stewards were still under the belief that  _Titanic_  was unsinkable, those standards seemed absolutely atrocious. Especially since her sister might be trapped amongst those huddled families waiting for liberation.

Matthew's own outrage was apparent as well, and probably even stronger than Mary's. "You can't keep those poor people locked up like animals!" he said roughly. "The ship  _is_  sinking, we heard it directly from Mr Andrews!"

"It's the  _law_!" the steward stressed. His hands were gripping around the lock on the gate to keep passengers from fumbling with the bolts. "We can't do anything until official orders come to us to let them up to the boats."

Matthew had never appeared more furious than he did now. "What good is the law when this ship is foundering as we speak?" he retorted.

 _The lawyer disregards the law_ , Mary thought, affording herself one small moment of irony.

The steward hesitated. "If … if we let them all out at once, they'll cause a commotion up on deck—"

"There's already a commotion  _down here_." Matthew gestured to the crammed passengers. "Just let the women and children out – take them up in groups if you think that's better – but for God's sake give them a chance to live!"

Mary pressed herself against the gate, rising up on her toes, trying to see if perhaps Sybil or Tom were pushing their way forward. She called out their names, louder and louder each time, hoping beyond hope that they would hear her above the din. Meanwhile, the steward reached into his back pocket and pulled out the tiny silver key to unlock the barrier, which prompted even more excited shouting from the passengers.

"Bring forth the women and children," one of the stewards called out. "Women and children only!"

Matthew pulled Mary back just as the stewards wrenched apart the sliding gates a foot or so. Several women, urged on by the men nearby, squeezed through the gap, rushing past the stewards for the adjacent hallways. They were not the only ones to try and get through – some panic-stricken men, who either did not understand English or were foolishly taking the opportunity to escape, shoved past the women still on the crowded side of the gate and made for the opening, but the stewards reacted quickly to keep them back. Holding onto Mary, Matthew drew her out of the way, expecting a whole surge of frightened people to come hurtling past them and the crew members.

"Women and children only! No men! No men!" the stewards cried.

A small bearded man stumbled through the opening, though if he had been pushed or attempted to get through himself wasn't clear. One of the crew members seized him, thrusting him back through the gap despite the other hapless men from getting through. There were still women trying to get out, calling out to the stewards to help them.

"I have small children!" one Irish mother called out. "Please, let  _us_  through!"

But the crew did not take any more chances – they did what they had to do to keep the desperate passengers behind the gate, punching and shoving them back. The most senior steward reached into his jacket and brandished a small silver revolver. The passengers at the front yelled out and some recoiled, though others still thrashed against the steel bars.

"Get back, you lot, or I shoot! Get back!" he shouted. "Lock the gates," he ordered to the other stewards.

"No! You can't!" Mary shrieked.  _What about Sybil and Tom?_   _If they're down there—!_

The stewards struggled to get the gates closed through the tangle of flailing arms and hands. The man with the small gun held his weapon aloft, waving it from side to side as the passengers pounded on the steel that was being folded shut again. "Stay back! Keep away from the gate!"

Matthew looked on at the mayhem with alarm. It was no longer a nervous crowd rattling the gate – it was a furious mob. His eyes shot back to the stewards with disgust. "You hardly let anyone out! Give them a chance. Let the girls go through!"

"It's out of our hands now," the steward with the gun said with absolute finality. The passengers shouted in protest, jostling the gate and scrabbling at the lock.

"Oi, get back!" the steward commanded. "Damage the gate and it'll be you payin' for it."

 _With their lives, if they keep this up,_ Matthew thought grimly.

One of the blue-garbed crew members turned to the them. "You can't do anything here. Go up to the boat deck so the missus can get in a boat. And get lifebelts on!"

Mary grasped Matthew's arms circled around her, the only thing keeping her from throwing herself at the gate again. How could it come to this? If Sybil and Tom weren't found by the Strallans up on deck or in a lifeboat, then they were trapped behind this horde, all hell breaking loose as water seeped in minute by minute. How could it be that her sister's safety – in fact, the safety of all these other people – was dependent on such cowardly stewards? They were afraid of a mob being released, but they had created one by keeping them trapped.

Matthew's voice sounded broken-hearted. "We can't do anything more about it, Mary. We have to go."

His words were spoken reluctantly. Mary could not bear to look into Matthew's eyes – she knew just how painful it was for him to abandon hope as they got nowhere to finding the Bransons. She clutched his hand, blinking back tears of frustration.

"I just want them to be alright," she said softly.

"So do I," Matthew sighed. "But if they stay together, then they'll find a way out."

Mary nodded absently. All she could think about were the Bransons, perhaps hedged in that crushing throng, confused and discouraged.

 _I believe the only reason they'd have gone down there was to help these poor people_ , she thought.  _They would have known no one else would. And now they're just as powerless as the rest of them_.

"You have to go now," the crew member said again, bringing Mary out of her miserable mind. "Do you need someone to show you the way?"

"No, we'll manage on our own," Matthew said.

Mary thought that would be that, and they'd turn around and make their way up to the deck without another word or glance at the anxious crowd. But Matthew went on, his request to the steward leaving no room for questions.

"Spread the word amongst these people to search for Sybil and Tom Branson. When you find them,  _both_ of them, bring them to the front. Send them up to the boat deck as quickly as you can."

Tentatively, the crew member nodded his head. "Is there a Sybil and Tom Branson nearby?" he called out between the rungs of the gate.

There was nothing more the Crawleys could do now – all they could do was hope that their efforts came to fruition. So they turned away and traced their steps back down the narrow undecorative corridors and up the stairwells that echoed with their solemn, heavy footsteps.

"I can't believe what happened back there," Mary said dolefully. "They way they kept them back – it was no better than a cage. Even when you said the ship was sinking they didn't bat an eye at keeping them shut up."

"They had their reasons," Matthew said, "but they weren't good reasons."

Mary slammed her hand on the railing as she pulled herself up the stairs. She was trying her best to keep level-headed, but the resentment and distress that had been building up was leading her to breaking point. "I never saw it as wrong … until now. I know they aren't being intentionally cruel, they're just upholding the law, but does all of that really matter  _now_?"

Matthew nodded in agreement. "I know Sybil and Tom would be apalled to see that."

"Tom would fly into a rage," Mary added. "But I'm apalled as well. I'd have never given a second thought to those stupid gates had I not seen what little good they were doing back there."

Like so many others, she had never thought twice about the gates that isolated those in steerage from the rest of the ship; it was simply what was done. But now that those impertinent stewards insisted on keeping those passengers under lock and key even in the midst of an urgent situation, she was realizing for the first time just how vile and inhumane it was. They weren't things to be imprisoned like animals in crates – they were families, children, men and women seeking new worlds and lives.

Her whole view of the world, of the obsession with social position and keeping that standard, had been turned upside down.

She was on the last few steps leading up to the door when she stopped, a frightful sensation paralysing her. Behind her, Matthew halted, looking towards the bottom of the stairs. The walls surrounding them and the metal steps below their feet seemed to groan, softly at first, then louder and louder. Everything creaked as if threatening to break apart at that very minute. It went on for about ten seconds, and in that short time both of them grew cold and motionless, hearing those agonizing moans of a ship, as though it had become sentient and aware of its approaching demise.

Mary was almost completely still, save for her trembling hands and pounding heart. She had the distinct feeling of being inside a huge sea creature that had swallowed her whole, and it's groaning was both vengeful and pitiful. It was a sound that a human was incapable was making, but the horror that it carried was all too real.

When the creaking ceased, the stairwells was silent, and Mary remained in her sudden state of shock. The only thing that brought her back to the real world was Matthew urging her on.

"We have to go, now," he said to her, his voice low.

Mary nodded, and she gripped the railings at her sides even tighter than before. Her steps were slow and careful; she could feel the tilt of the ship, hardly discernable by sight, but she felt it in the way she had to be mindful not to put her foot down in the wrong place and stumble. She pushed on the door leading out of the stairwell, and she could see her hand still shaking.

 _Please God, let Sybil and Tom be up on deck,_  she prayed.  _Let us all leave this wreck safe and sound._

Tonight, however, was going disastrously wrong at each new turn, and the dark part of her heart suspected that God had turned away from their plight.

* * *

For the second time that night, Sybil found herself desperately trying to shake Tom awake, hysterically calling out his name as the water flooded around them.

His face was against the floor, visibly battered and bruised, and there were probably areas of skin hidden under his clothing that had turned black and blue as a result of him coming to blows with the unpleasant stewards. Sybil herself felt a smarting pain in her stomach, like a tight ball, where she had been pummelled, though at the moment she couldn't care any less about her own soreness. The icy water was swirling in around them, coming in faster from under the door. How much of the outside corridor was already flooded? For how long had the two of them been in here? Sybil looked around the room for a clock – there was a tiny watch hanging from a shelf, forsaken in the middle of all the confusion.

A trickle of water streamed into Tom's mouth; that was enough to jolt him awake, sputtering and splashing about. He whipped his head around, the damp ends flicking off droplets.

Sybil breathed easier.  _He seems alright, alert now at least._

Tom looked about him for a few seconds, taking in the water closing in around them and the small cabin they had been shut in. Sybil was still kneeling beside him, and for a moment his face brightened.

"Oh thank God," he sighed. "Are you alright, Sybil?"

"I'm fine, but—" She was interrupted by Tom letting out a shudder as the water submerged his hands; he pulled them out, jumping to his feet so he wasn't lying on the floor. His trousers and shoes were already sopping wet, and the water was colder than anything he had felt before.

"Shite, that's freezing," he gasped. He helped Sybil stand up, the water sloshing around them. It was coming in from under the door like a small wave, pouring in and filling the room faster by the second.

"Those bastards shut us in here," he realized. He swore violently in Irish under his breath. Sybil thought about rebuking him, but she also wanted to scream bloody murder for how they had been treated. Had the stewards been aware that the ship was flooding? She was shocked at how quickly the water had been rising – she remembered the ship's officers talking about the mail hold and the boiler rooms being underwater. Just how much time had passed since they were knocked out?

She walked over to the shelf where she had seen the abandoned watch, hiking up her skirts so she could wade through the water faster. The heavy cloth was dragging her down, and if the water wasn't so frigid she might actually consider ripping it off. Her hands fumbled as she reached for the little watch, a cheaply made one, but it was in working order, the tiny gears within still ticking.

_1:34_

"Oh my God." Her mouth hung open. Was it really that late already? She tried to think back: the stewards had woken them up and ordered them to put on their lifeboats about a quarter after midnight. They must have reached Scotland Road ten or twenty minutes later – then how long had they been wandering about, lost and disoriented, before the stewards had attacked them? What did any of that matter now, though? The water was rushing in obscenely fast, and just how long would it be before the entire deck was immersed?

She dropped the watch back on the shelf. "We need to get out and find a way up to the deck."

Tom nodded. "Sounds like a reasonable plan."

They both splashed over to the narrow door, and Tom tried the handle. "Argh! It's stuck!"

Sybil groaned in frustration. "Those bleeding stewards! Are we no better than criminals to them?"

Tom shook his head. "I don't think it's locked – the handle's just jammed."

He pressed down hard on it, his teeth gnashing together as he strained. Something within the door snapped, and there was a small tinkling of metal breaking off. Tom took his hands off the handle and it remained in its downward position.

"Christ!" His hands were raw from forcing the handle, and now it was all for nothing.

Sybil banged on the door, though she realized that no one sensible would still be down there to hear her. Tom slogged around the room, searching the shelves and corners for anything that might help them get out. He was even trying to wrench a pipe from the sink, though it was welded together too expertly. He could feel the water swishing around above his ankles, and he knew it was going to climb higher by the minute; there wasn't a part of the floor that wasn't touched by it.

With a grunt, Sybil smashed her shoulder against the door with all the force she could muster; the wood crackled a bit where she had struck it.

"Sybil don't – you'll hurt yourself," Tom warned her.

She grunted again, throwing her entire body against the door. "I have to try. We're running out of time."

Her point was obvious in the fact that the water was now up to their calves, gurgling and rippling. The various objects strewn across the floor – valises and sacks of clothing, a folder of immigration papers, a bible – were floating on the surface, but none of them would be remotely useful in breaking through the door.

Sybil threw herself against the door again, then started pounding wildly with her clenched fists.  _I'm not going to die like this_ , she vowed.  _There is no way I'm drowning in a tiny little room._

"Sybil, get out of the way," Tom cried.

She backed away from the door, huddling against the bunks. Tom lunged forward as if he was a hot-tempered sportsman, hurling himself at the door as fast as he could through the water. His arm smashed against the wood, and it splintered. Sybil darted to his side to help him as he began to rip chunks of the wood away, trying to create a hole big enough for them to climb through. They were almost up to their knees in ice water, but she stooped down to rend away the planks close to the ground. The water filling the corridor outside began to stream into the room, flooding it even faster, some of the cold liquid gushing across Sybil's shoulders and neck and spraying her mouth. She coughed and gasped but she did not stop working away at the door until she felt a large board rip away from the hinges. A small wave surged into the room, nearly propelling her to the floor.

"That's enough! We need to get out now." Tom pulled Sybil up from where she was crouched on the floor, his hands shaking from having strained so badly. The water in the room was now level with what was outside the corridor, and it was above their knees. Sybil's skirt clung around her like a mass of seaweed ready to ensnare her and drag behind her. The fringe of her coat, her heaviest garment, was getting wet now as well. She might be forced to shed it soon so it would not weigh her down.

Tom pushing her from behind, Sybil struggled through the tight hole, the sharp edges of the splinters snagging on the threads of her coat. She twisted away, tripping into the swamped corridor. Her knees gave way and she fell, her chin plunging below the surface of the rippling water.

It felt cold enough to stop a man's heart, to make ice crystals form on her fingers and solidify her entire body. No one should  _ever_  have their whole body plunged in water this chilly, let alone fight for their lives as she and Tom were doing. She clawed upwards to find a grip in the wall, hoisting herself to her feet.

"Sybil? Are you alright?" The tips of Tom's fingers already felt numb when they touched her face.

Sybil breathed deeply, glad to no longer be trapped in the tiny stateroom. "I am now."

"Good. Now let's find the way out."

The air in the corridor felt like a wintry day, but the river felt even colder. The place was understandably deserted, but there were still objects drifting in the water: chairs bobbing up and down, cardboard suitcases floating like little rafts, the contents of some emptied across the surface. One little girl's cloth doll wafted into an open cabin.

Tom shook his head sombrely. "It's like a ghost town."

The white light bulbs attached to the walls began to dim, briefly bathing the corridor in an orange glow before brightening again. There was a faint buzzing sound from above, and the again the lights faded in and out, casting the hallway almost entirely in darkness. Sybil and Tom stood motionless, cold breath hanging in the air, as the bulbs flared on, remaining at a dim glow.

Tom looked down at the water surrounding his legs. "Jesus, if we're shocked …"

"All the more reason to get out of here," Sybil said with grim determination. She looked at either end of the hall – it was hard to tell where the water was coming from. Even more worrying was the fact that the corridor looking completely unfamiliar – how far had the stewards dragged them from where they had assaulted?

 _Damn them all to hell_ , Sybil thought. "Which way do you think?"

Tom started to answer her, when he would say that any way would be good enough for him as long as there was less water hugging at his trousers. But he was cut off by a loud rumbling, the groan of stressing metal, like the insides of the ship being twisted about. A short distance away, sparks flew from an overhead pipe. A single light bulb burst.

Not giving a second thought to where she might be headed, Sybil slogged down towards the nearest end of the corridor, to where it met with another waterlogged hallway. There had to be a stairwell to a higher deck somewhere, and they weren't going to find it by standing around. Behind her, Tom came splashing, breathing hard as if in pain. She did not blame him – the agony of being in the water felt worse than an electric shock.

"I don't think I'll ever complain about the winters in Dublin again after this," Sybil muttered.

"I don't think I'll complain about  _anything_  anymore," Tom put in.

They turned the corner down the next hallway, Sybil leading the way to the right. Here it was a bit brighter, but going by the loud groan that the ship's hull emitted, it might not last long like that. All around them were the sounds of that heavy jarring, furniture and lost possessions bounding against the walls, a hum of electricity, their own ragged breathing …

Sybil gasped aloud. "Here!"

She ducked into an alcove and up the stairs. Tom followed her, shaking the water off his legs; he was already blue-lipped and shivering enough to rattle his teeth. The bottom of his shoes squeaked against the metal stairs.

 _What I wouldn't do for a flask of whiskey right now_ , he thought wistfully.

Breathing hard, Sybil bolted up the stairs, but the hope that she had regained upon seeing the stairwell diminished quickly upon coming face to face with a closed metal gate.

"No!" she breathed.

Grabbing the rungs of the metal gate with her half-numb hands, she rattled it forcefully, growling in exasperation. The gate trembled in its track, but held fast. She hunched down and tried to pry apart the bolts, but they were too tight, and her hands groped about uselessly at the lock.

"Goddamn it!" she screeched, wrestling with the gate again. "Come on!"

Her cold hands gripped the bars, shaking them with futile strength. She balled a hand into a fist and struck the gate as if it were a person, making her knuckles sting. For God's sake, why were there still locked gates? Where had the passengers gone, if not out this way?

Tom came up beside her. "Hello?" he called out at the top of his lungs. "Can anyone hear me?"

His voice echoed against the walls. The only answer they got was the babble of water from the deck they had just come up from.

Sybil slumped against the barriers, exhausted. She was tired off all of this: dealing with infernal stewards and bleeding gates. In the middle of this calamity, the idyllic  _Titanic_  showed off her worst assets. For all of the beauty, all of the triumph that she had stood for, she had concealed what so many would suffer for – what was obstructing the Bransons now, and what was impeding hundreds of others, in some other distant part of the ship.

Her body felt tired, but in the middle of all of this turmoil her spirit remained resolute. "We have to try somewhere else," she decided, pulling herself up. "We have to find where the rest of the passengers went. It's our only hope."

She hadn't realized she was going to say those last words – they had spilled out of her mouh unexpectedly. They were horrible words to comprehend, but they spoke the truth.

Tom looked back down at the water apprehensively; it was up four stairs and rising higher before his eyes. Yet no one seemed to hear them, and what other options did they have? Reluctantly, he stepped back down to the inundated corridor, grimacing as the pain of the iciness hit his skin again. Someone may as well have hidden underwater and nicked him with a knife.

The water seemed to be rushing harder, as animated as a river after a storm. It swirled around their waists, and they moved even slower than before. Sybil's coat was weighing her down considerably, and she figured it was not going to do much good from now on; even up on deck, it would remain damp and fail to keep her warm. She shrugged it off, leaving it behind in the flood.

"The ship's listing," Tom said all of a sudden.

"What?"

"The level of the water." Tom pointed, and Sybil saw exactly what he meant. Though to her eyes, it did not appear as if the ship was shifting, but the water was instead defying gravity. Yet the creaking sound returned, lasting longer than it had before. The water sloshed against the walls as they trudged through it, moving as if they were sunk into a thick swamp. Both of them were heaving, slogging through with all of their strength and doing their best despite the dull pangs from the bruises the stewards had given them.

"Which deck are we even on?" Tom wondered aloud.

Sybil looked around for a sign, a floor plan, anything within this maze where every corner resembled the last. It was a wonder that everyone else had gotten out, though maybe they had the help of crew members who actually knew the way around. Where were they all now? She couldn't not hear another living the soul – the rush of the water drowned out any other sounds – could they already be up on deck?  _Maybe this damn crew has done something right for once_ , Sybil thought bitterly.

Her thoughts turned to her sisters, to her brothers-in-law – surely they were already in a lifeboat, rowing away from the foundering liner. If they were, then they were safe, she considered, and that was certainly better than the situation she and Tom were in right now. But she did not feel grudgingly towards them – it would be so wrong of her to condemn her sisters simply for being out of harm's way.

She caught sight of a sign attached to the wall, pointing one way down the adjoing corridor.  _Stairs to D Deck_.

"We're on E deck," she discerned. "Tom, this way – I think there are some other stairs down there."

Despite the fact that the water was not up to her waist at this end, Sybil pivoted with difficulty in the surge, the muscles in her legs feeling as heavy as stone. Turning her head, she looked down the direction the sign was pointing. That end of the corridor was still awash, but a foot shallower than where they were now. She couldn't see where the stairwell was, though, as the lights kept flashing on and off. She was strongly reminded of the lightning-storms that happened outside her bedroom as a child, that exhilarated fear of when the flash would light up her dark room with a bluish-white blaze. Only now the flashing was much more rapid, the corridor shifting from light to dark each second and it was hurting her eyes. How long did they have before the lights went out here, before the entire ship lost power?

"Sybil!" Tom cried out.

She whipped around, the damps ends of her hair smacking her cheeks. She saw Tom's head disappear beneath the surface of the water, his hands reaching out for her.

"Tom!" she screamed. Taking a quick deep breath, she dove down and plunged herself into the water where she had seen Tom vanish.

If the water had stung her legs and hands, then it tore at her face as soon as she submerged it. How could anything be  _this_  cold? Her hands swished wildly for Tom, though she couldn't see anything with her eyes closed. God, where was he? The water was coming in faster – she could feel it with her head underwater, and she was scrabbling around for Tom and fighting against the current at the same time.

Sybil came back up above the water briefly for air, but she did not waste any time in ducking back underwater to search for Tom. What had happened to him? Had he tripped on something? Was he stuck? She forced herself back above water again, sucking in a cold breath that made her lungs ache. Her limbs were lethargic and becoming harder for her to control. She was losing her strength, had already lost so much from trudging down the long hallways. How long could she hold out like this?

During her training as a nurse, Sybil had read about the effects of hypothermia: abnormally low body temperature. In water close to freezing temperature or below, even a person in ideal health and excellent physicial condition can only survive for a short time when immersed almost completely. They start shivering uncontrollably almost immediately, and soon the body would begin to shut down – fingers and toes, hands and feet, arms and legs, finally to the internal organs, until every part of them was numb and moving around would be near impossible. The heart would begin to slow down, coming to the point when a person falls unconcious, then not long after, it would stop altogether.

 _How long have we been standing around in this river? How long have we both got?_  Sybil wondered fearfully.

If they got out of the water soon, perhaps they stood a chance – they'd be chilled for days afterwards, but life was life, and losing a finger or a toe was a good compromise to freezing to death. But now, with both of their heads wet, the hypothermia would settle in even faster.

Sybil's left hand brushed against waterlogged cloth, and she grasped it, pulling upwards. She sputtered and spat out water as her head rose out of the deluge, Tom's startled head appearing in front of her.

"Oh God!" Sybil cried. "Oh thank God!"

She hauled Tom up as he coughed raspily, and she sagged against the wall, holding herself up by a groove in the wall. She was shuddering, not just from the cold, but from the adrenaline that had propelled her to rescue Tom. Now they were both completely drenched, head to toe in arctic water, but at least they were alive.

Tom panted and wheezed, the cold water that had drained into his throat shocking him from the inside. "I'm – I'm sorry – lost – lost my balance."

"It's alright," Sybil said to soothe him. She had never been so scared for him in her life – that moment when she caught sight of his head dipping beneath the water could have stopped her heart.

"Must've tripped – over something," he croaked. "Then I went under – and I couldn't – couldn't make myself move – like I didn't know which way was up."

"Shh, you're alright now," Sybil said, cupping his face in her hands. His skin was soaked and his clothes were completely soggy, as was she. Her fingertips had lost feeling now, even when they were touching Tom's cheek.  _That_  frightened her just as much as losing sight of him, not being able to feel him.

The water was still rising, and both of them were so enervated they might have passed out were they not spurned on by the danger surrounding them. The entire place seemed to have changed in that short moment Tom and Sybil had been underwater: the thick pipes overhead were showering both water and sparks. A spray of water was heard coming from somewhere – one of the rooms, maybe? – and the whole spate was rushing faster than before, a sheet of foam rippling on the top. Thunderous grating and groaning resounded everywhere, steel and iron jarring and grinding, the cries of the dying ship mingling with the flow of water.

"Oh God," Tom said, the horror evident in his voice. He was looking towards the end of the corridor, about fifty feet away. Through the cracks of a pair of double-doors, water was spraying through like narrow waterfalls, all the way up to the gap between the doors and the ceiling. The hingest were creaking under the pressure on the other side.

"Run!" Tom shouted.

Neither of them had gotten a single step before the doors blasted open, a torrential wall crashing into the corridor and foaming from floor to ceiling. Tom and Sybil bolted away as fast as they could, the force of the wave spewing as it hurtled through the hallway. All Sybil could hear was the roaring of the surge gaining behind her and Tom screaming for her to run, which she did as fast as she could. The indoor lightning-storm returned, the passageway being bathed in lucid white light before being plunged into absolute darkness, over and over again.

The surge overtook her, throwing her off her feet and pulling her along. She screamed, and as her head was dunked underwater she nearly choked. The current was too strong for her to fight it, and so she was helpless as it carried her violently down the corridor. There were times when she couldn't breath from the shock of it all, and as her legs scraped against the floor her arms flailed blindly about. Being dragged along a turbulent river was not much different than this, safe for the fact that eventually there would be no breathing space left.

Out of the corner of her eye, in the span of a second, she caught sight of a stairwell leading upward rushing past her. That was her only escape, she knew, but she only registered that fact when she was swept away from it. She reached her hand out for something on the wall to grab onto, but the surge was too strong and her hands too moist to hold a grip. She had just about come to believe that the current would never stop carrying her when she ploughed unexpectedly into a gate that led downstairs. She groaned and coughed as she gripped the metal bars, the flood billowing around her and cascading down the stairs. It was rising a few inches every second, swelling from around her waist to her shoulders. She began to rise along with it, her legs thrashing about as they lost contact with the floor.

Desperately, Sybil called out for Tom, looking backwards for him – surely he had to be right behind her, coming up to smash into the gate beside her. She heard him cry out her name over the angry gurgle of the flow, and she saw his arms reaching up for the wide overhead pipe. The rushing water splashed against him, yet he was inching his way closer to her, his face upturned so he could breathe.

"Sybil, give me your hand," he yelled over the noise of the surge.

Following his tactic, Sybil reached up for the pipe, one hand skimming along the wall. There was hardly a foot between the top of the water and the ceiling, and by the time she had pulled herself close to Tom, it was flowing close to her chin.

"The stairs – that way!" Sybil waved her hand towards the stairwell to D deck. Tom promptly began to inch the other way along the pipe, his hands wet and nearly losing their grip. Sybil pulled herself along the seams of the wall, her numb fingers slipping as the water poured over them. She could barely see where she was going, thanks to the malfunctioning lights. The stairwell was only ten feet away from the gate she had slammed against, but having to haul herself against the enourmous pressure of the current made the task agonizingly arduous.

Tom was the first to reach the stairwell, and he grasped the railing with one and as he outstretched his other to help Sybil. "Come on," he called out as her weary arm stretched forward. Their slick hands were scarcely able to clutch the other, but somehow Tom pulled her towards him and she stumbled against the stairs, breathing so hard her chest heaved. They pounded up the stairs as the white water swirled up behind them; it was inches away from the ceiling of E deck, and there was probably less than a minute before it was entire underwater.

Yet once again, their path was blocked by another steel gate, locked fast.

"No! God, no!" Sybil screeched. Why were there so many barred gates?  _Did the stewards go back and lock the gates after they cleared everyone out so they wouldn't return for their things?_

Tom slammed against the gate, but like the others they had collided with, it was secure in its track, and the padlock was too strong to pry apart. "Fecking hell!" he screamed.  _I'll kill the bastard who ordered these gates put in, and if he's dead I'll find his grave and spit on it!_

Sybil pressed her face against the cross-hatching bars. "Help! Someone, help us! Help!" Her voice was hoarse and her throat felt gelid from having gulped down some of the freezing water as it swept her away. "Please, someone help us!"

Tom looked behind and down at the water creeping up. "Oh, God no!"

With her heart in her mouth, Sybil followed his stare down and watched, petrified, as the green-tinged water welled up to the ceiling of the deck below, completely consuming it.

Here they were, trapped between the rising torrent and a fastened gate. Sybil's heart hammered inside her, sending frenzied palpitations throughout her entire body, and her hands quivered as she started to furiously rattle the gate.  _It can't end like this, it can't end like this_ , her panicked thoughts wailed. "Help!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

She gave a loud shriek as the water pooled around her feet, spilling across the landing. How many minutes – no, seconds – would pass before the water reached the top here? If no one came to their rescue within that time, then …

Her breath froze in her throat as the revelation seized her. Would her whole world really end like this? After all of the obstacles she had faced, all the tenacity she had gathered to fight through them, was it all going to end with her crammed against this steel barrier, frigid water biting at her legs?

"No," she whimpered. "No, it can't end now."

"Sybil …" Tom said softly.

"No!" Sybil cried out emphatically. "We have to do something! We need to think of something!"

Tom glanced down quickly as the foam swirled around his legs. "Sybil, listen to me …"

"What are we going to do?" Sybil shrieked. She uttered one last grunt of frustration before her head fell forward, resting against the bars while water gushed up to her knees, and through half-closed eyes she watched it creep even higher. She pounded weakly against the bars, hopelessness burning through her.

Tom's hand stayed hers. "Sybil, listen to me, please."

Desolately, Sybil rose her head to look at him. She saw the tears forming in his eyes, the eyes that were always so bright and loving.

"I'll tell you what we're going to do," he said to her. "We're going to hold each other tight, and we're not going to let go. We're going to hold each other, and we're going to think of home."

Sybil shivered as the water rose mid-thigh. "But Tom … it's not over. It can't be …"

He waded closer to Sybil and embraced her, holding her close to him. Langorously, Sybil's arms rose and circled around Tom's back, her fingers clenching the damp cloth of his shirt. Her own eyes filled up with tears, and she tried to force them back, uselessly. She pressed her cheek against Tom's shoulder, her eyes turned towards his face. He was still warm; even if she couldn't feel it in her fingers, she felt it through the rest of her body.

Her voice quivered as she spoke, "I'm so sorry."

"What for?" Tom asked.

Sybil strained against the urge to shed her tears. "Our lives … they were supposed to be long. We were supposed to have a family. Our children …"

She cried out a wretched sob at the thought of the children she and Tom were meant to raise together, to hold and to love, to sing to sleep at night. She thought of the moments she and Tom were supposed to share: the snow-filled Christmases in Dublin, the adventures in New York, visiting the Crawleys and the Strallans and the families they were going to bring up as well.

Unbidden, the smiling faces of her sisters came to her mind, and her parents alongside them. She recalled the first time she had laid eyes on Tom, the first meaningful words they had spoken to each other, the first time he had sworn his love to her. She remembered the wedding under the flower trellis, when they had first lay together as husband and wife – her wedding band was still on her finger, she realized. Even after being thrown around by the surge it had remained where it should be.

"Sybil, I …" Tom's voice cracked. "I only glad that I was able to share some small part of my life with you. I'd rather die here, with you in my arms, then live to be an old man and never know you."

He kissed her forehead, cradling her head. "I love you,  _a_ _mhuirnín,_ " he murmured.

"I love you too," Sybil sobbed, "I love you so much."

The water was burbling around their arms now, the lights flickering madly. "Close your eyes," Tom said to Sybil. "Close them tight, and think of home."

She did: she shut them tight, pressing her face against Tom's chest so she wouldn't be tempted to open them. She pictured the flat they inhabited in Dublin, the little flower box outside their bedroom window, the brightness of the morning sun shining through the windowpanes. She imagined the wide green lawns of her childhood home in England, the afternoon light dancing across the stony walls, the laughter of young Mary and Edith as they played and ran with her. She recalled the warmth of her bed after a long day at the hospital, how she'd smile as Tom climbed in beside her – he was the last thing she'd see at night, and the first thing in the morning.

Relentlessly, the deep icy flood churned around them, but Sybil thought; she had never felt safer than she did right now in Tom's arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobbed myself nearly sick while writing this* *hides in corner* *proceeds to write apology letters*
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. The gates separating steerage from the "cabin" passengers existed not in anticipation of a shipwreck, but in compliance of laws to avoid the spread of infectious diseases (real logical, mates). During the disaster, the stewards guarding these gates weren't aware of the damage the ship had taken due to the iceberg, or they still believed her to be unsinkable, and so there seemed to be no reason to break the law. They waited for official orders to release steerage to the lifeboats, but with all the chaos happening, those orders never came. Some still believed that third-class had their own lifeboats, and others thought it was only right that first- and second-class passengers be loaded in the boats before steerage was allowed. A few good men escorted a couple small groups of women and children up, but the majority of steerage was left to their own devices.
> 
> 2\. I'm an arsehole. (This is now a historical fact)


	11. Never to Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to take the time and apologise again to the S/T shippers for I did to them the last time. Because I don't know how many of you are currently plotting my murder through your tears!
> 
> Also, for those who need the reminder, Titanic sank at approximately 2:20am. So we've got less than an hour and I'm losing my mind.

_1:40_

As  _Titanic_  slowly and steadily descended below the ocean, so the deck descended into chaos.

It hadn't escaped the notice of the passengers that the bow had dipped underwater, the sea swelling across the deck. The promenades were visibly listing forward, and those standing close to the bridge could see just how close the water was, creeping higher every minute. The lights still burned and the band continued to play as jauntily as they could, but the mood amongst the passengers and crew alike was now very grim. Perhaps most realized that they would not be returning to their cozy staterooms anytime soon. The rush to fill the lifeboats became more urgent as word spread amongst the officers that the E deck was almost completely flooded. From the look of things right now, time was running out.

Edith craned her head up and watched, impassively, as another rocket was fired into the air. Once again, gasps could be heard around the deck as the thin stream of light raced into the sky, exploded high about the funnels, then showered down like a firework. The officers were firing them from the bridge every five minutes, though if they were doing anything to help their rescue it wasn't yet apparent. So far, there were no other ships appearing on the horizon, and  _Titanic_  was sinking far quicker than perhaps even Mr Andrews could have imagined.

She was beginning to worry – it had been nearly half an hour since Mary and Matthew had separated from her and Anthony. Their search around the deck for Sybil and Tom had been unavailing, which really send Edith's heart into a panicked flutter. It was not enough to console herself by considering that maybe they had missed them, that they hadn't looked hard enough at the boats in the water. It wasn't helping at all that Mary and Matthew weren't up on deck yet either, and if they didn't appear soon, the Strallans would be forced into a rather difficult situation: get into the boats without knowing where the others were, or wait for them and risk loosing their chance. Perhaps more than half of the lifeboats had already been launched by now, and they were being filled up faster as the ship listed even more. The calm that Edith and Anthony had emerged to find was quickly disappearing.

"Do you think they've gotten lost?" Edith speculated.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Anthony said. "They were in the part of the ship that wasn't familiar to them. Remember, it took  _me_  a full day to find—"

A sharp blasting noise thundered through the night, cutting short Anthony's words. He reeled back, his wide eyes scanning the length of the deck. Edith gasped at the sound, and she certainly wasn't the only one. "Oh God, not again."

They had first heard the gunshots about fifteen minutes before. Across the port side of the deck, one of the officers had shouted, "If anyone else tries that, this is what he gets!" With that, three shots were rapidly fired into the air, producing even more shrieks from the passengers. The music stopped briefly before resuming again, but a played bit more hesitantly thereafter. Now, another shot rang out, again on the port side, and the clatter of people reeling back was close enough to make the boards beneath Edith and Anthony's feet shake.

"It's falling apart," Anthony said. "We can't wait around much longer."

Edith nodded, understanding that perhaps there was no more time to wait for Mary and Matthew. She felt a cruel pang of guilt for not keeping her promise to stay put, but for each moment they lingered,  _Titanic_  inched deeper into the ocean and the lifeboats were being launched with even faster now.

 _Forgive me_ , Edith said silently, like a last apology to her sister. Mary and Matthew were on their own now.

"The starboard side," Edith said. "We'll both be able to get in then."

Anthony nodded absently. "Yes, I think that's best."

Edith touched his arm gently. "What is it?"

His eyes were turned aft, to an opening where a group of bedraggled passengers were emerging onto the boat deck. The were steerage passengers by their dress and behaviour. Evidently, they were sending small groups up, mostly consisting of women, but even these small groups made the deck much more crowded, and still the chaos intensified.

"We need to hurry if we're both to get in," Sir Anthony said. "Let's go aft first." He looked frantically up and down the starboard side, trying to see just how far away the closest lifeboat was.

Edith took Anthony's hand and together they made their way towards the stern, pushing past the people rushing about. Not even the officers could keep the crowd still or quell the overall panic. There were some trying to enter the boats as they were being lowered, jumping several feet or climbing in through lower decks, and the supervising officers were trying to thrust those desperate people back with the oars. On both sides there were more gunshots, more screaming, more frantic shouting. All order seemed to have dissolved as the passengers realized their very lives were at stake.

As metal groaned and wood creaked, as the lights flickered briefly to cast the world in darkness for a second, the unanimous revelation was that  _Titanic_  was no longer unsinkable.

Just a minute after Edith and Anthony abandoned their post at the first-class entrance, Mary and Matthew came scrambling up the staircase.

Both of them were panting hard, shoulders smacking into people as they raced up, stumbling out onto the cold deck as if they were running for their lives. They had barely stopped since feeling the ship settle as they were coming up from the third-class entrance, yet in their haste they had lost their way up to the boat deck. As they only knew one way out to the boat deck – up the grand ornate staircase – they had had to find that first, and doing that while their minds were still agitated from the scene they had come to downstairs and their futile search for the Bransons.

Hurtling out onto the chilly deck, Mary looked around the immediate area for Edith and Anthony. They were nowhere to be seen in the middle of the bustle and excitement.

"Where the hell are they?" Mary grumbled.

She had the horrible suspicion that one or both of them had gotten into a boat. From where she and Matthew were, close to the bridge, there were still some boats being slowly filled, but towards the stern almost all had been launched, the davits no longer supporting anything.

Mary followed Matthew as he dashed over to the gunwale on the port side, leaning over and looking down at the sea. The ship itself was unmoving, but the water was climbing higher and higher up her black sides. How did she appear to the passengers rowing away in the lifeboats? Matthew turned his head towards the submerged bow and saw how near the water was to reaching B deck, only two decks below them. He imagined that the forecastle was now completely underwater, and with the bow beneath the ocean, the rest of the ship would get pulled down swiftly. He didn't give her a half-hour left.

"We can't wait any longer," he said briskly. "We need to get into a lifeboat right now."

"But what about Edith and Anthony?" Mary looked around her, as if she might catch a glimpse of her sister or her husband – where had they gone if they hadn't been waiting for them?

Matthew shook his head. "We can't lose any more time. If they're sensible, they'll be waiting for a boat. We need to do the same."

There were so many people swarming around the deck that it would be impossible to search for the Strallans; enough time had already been wasted from searching for the Bransons. Mary could see in the dark distance all the other boats, rowing so far away from the ship that the furthest ones were only blots of grey bobbing up and down. There could be no more searching tonight: all they could do was pray that the others were in one.

Mary tried her hardest to ignore the forbidding trepidation in her heart – how could she include herself in this exodus when she was so far from certain that her sisters and the men they loved were on the path to safety? Would they think to leave her and Matthew to their wits and hope for the best? Edith certainly would not have left the first-class entrance if she could have helped it; she wasn't nearly that selfish. And Sybil definitely would have ensured her entire family was all right before letting herself be evacuated. But Mary understood why the need to get to the boats now was so urgent – on this side of the ship, there were only three or so more boats, and all of them were nearly full, or as full as the crew would allow them to be. Once those were gone, the collapsibles would be launched, yet there were still so many people waiting for salvation.

And matters, Mary and Matthew soon perceived, were already becoming deadly. To their left, they heard a series of dull splashes – three or four men, determined to alight from the ship, had made the jump over the railing, a thirty foot drop to the icy-cold ocean. One man's face surfaced with a yell, stunned and gasping and flailing his arms wildly. Another did not come up at all from the circle of foam he had disappeared through. The officers, recognizing the ultimate intentions of those desperate men, began shouting to everyone who could hear them to step away from the edge of the deck.

"Get back, all of you!" came the commands, and those were followed by a couple short gunshots, which made Mary jump.

"They have  _guns_  on the ship? Why did they ever think to bring  _guns_ on a bloody _ship_?" she practically yelled. If those officers thought shooting bullets into the air was going to control the mass hysteria, they in for a surprise.

 _This is what things have come to_ , Matthew thought,  _men throwing themselves into the water as if they have faith they can swim to the boats without freezing to death or drowning from the shock._

"Mary, come this way," he said quickly, taking her arm and leading her to the closest lifeboat. There was a thick crowd of feverish passengers, packed across the deck so densely that the crew manning the boat were standing up next to the davits. There looked to be fifty men and women pushing forward, passing the youngest children to the crewmen so they could be lifted into the boat. The officers kept motioning with their arms, calling out to bring forth the women and children, but still there were boys and men who were attempting to get in. The people who saw this wrenched them back, and the officer in charge lifted his gun as a warning.

"Get back! Woman and children  _only_!" someone shouted. Mary shrieked as a gunshot blasted through the air ten feet away from her, and she slammed her hands to her ears. But what the man had bellowed seconds before startled her even more.

_Women and children only? Are they not letting any men, even now when the ship's this far down in the water?_

She craned her head to see who was already sitting in the boat. There were only women and very young boys, not a single husband or father amongst them. Many of the women were hiding their tears, either by gathering their coats closer to their faces or looking out to the black horizon. Others remained stoic, motionless except for sporadic shivering from the cold. Fathers were comforting their crying children from afar with promises that they'd be seeing each other soon. How were they not letting on any men at all? There were still so many people standing on deck, and so few lifeboats remained on the davits.

Somebody – a crewman attending to the boat – grabbed her arm suddenly. "This way, madam. Come quickly, there are only a few more spots."

"Wait!" Mary cried out. Her other hand waved around for Matthew, and she felt him hold it as she was dragged forward, through the crowd and towards the lifeboat.

"Step back, sir," the crewman ordered Matthew, pushing him backwards.

"No, stop!" Mary reached behind her for Matthew's hand again. "Please let him come with me – he's my husband!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, it's women and children only in this boat," the man said, sounding tired of his words.

With a distraught "No!" Mary ripped her arm out of the man's grasp, but she was already in front of the lifeboat. The head officer held out his hand to her, to aid her in getting into the boat, but she did not take it. "I'm not going, not without my husband."

Matthew emerged from the jostling rabble, coming to stand in front of the officer. "Please, let me go with her. I don't want to leave her alone."

"I can't allow that sir, not while there are still women waiting," the officer said.

Matthew's head snapped around to look at the huge horde behind him. "So you'll just leave these men to die here?" he asked angrily. "These people had families, children—"

"It's women and children on this boat, sir," the officer said stiffly. " _Only_  women and children."

His tone left no tolerance for argument, and his hand still held the gun. Matthew's face hardened; he seemed quite ready to smack the man and knock him into the water. But he could not argue – it would get neither him nor Mary anywhere.

He took both of Mary's hands in his; her fingers were already so cold from being outside without gloves. She was trembling too, and her misgivings were shown in her face, her quivering mouth and wide eyes. Already she was shaking her head, understanding fully what he was about to tell her.

"Mary, you have to get in by yourself," Matthew said. "Now, before it lowers down."

"No!" Mary cried. "I can't – not without you."

"I can't get in this one. But there are still more boats, and I can get in one of those," Matthew said. "You'll be fine, I swear. You'll be safe, and that's the important thing."

"Madam, if you're getting in, get in – now!" the officer said crossly.

Mary looked at the lifeboat, almost full with tear-stained faces and shoulders hunched over from the cold. That tiny cramped boat was her only way off this doomed ship. Once she got in, her survival would be guaranteed. But she could not bring herself to let go of Matthew, to walk away from him while his future was still in the balance.

"You mustn't worry about me," Matthew said. "I'll be alright, my darling. It will only be for a little while."

Mary blinked furiously, feeling herself going to pieces. "Do you promise?" she asked.

Matthew pulled her close and kissed her. His eyes closed and for half a moment he forgot he was on a sinking ship, surrounded by chaos. "I promise," he said softly, almost a whisper in her ear. "Now go. Get in."

Before she could object any further, Mary's arm was grabbed by the harried officer, and she was pushed towards the gunwale. "Stay back," the officer ordered to the people on deck. "Clear the row, please."

The crewman already onboard held out his hand, and, trying her hardest not to look down at the cold green seawater sloshing below, Mary climbed off the  _Titanic_  and into the little white lifeboat. It dipped with her weight, and she stalled, a tiny yelp escaping her mouth.

"Don't worry now, madam, just sit down here," the crewman assured her. "Step lively."

Tentatively, Mary sat down on a narrow plank, next to a woman holding a red-faced child who was quietly sobbing into her neck. The crewman turned to the officer on the ship. "This one's full."

The officer raised his arms. "Lower away," he commanded.

The passengers collectively gasped as rickety lifeboat jolted. Slowly, with ropes tugging and pulleys creaking, the boat began to lower. "Slow, easy lads, slower," the officer instructed, his voice brassy over the frantic calling and weeping. Mary's fingers grasped at the edge of the plank she was sitting on. Her heart stopped a beat as the boat knocked against the side of the ship. She glanced uneasily at the thick cords suspending her in the air and wondered how likely it was that they would snap.

She looked up and saw Matthew standing by the edge, watching her be lowered towards the ocean. He appeared to be the one moving, rising higher above her head, gazing down at her. His blue eyes were bright, and Mary discerned them to be watery. His hands gripped the railing as if in an effort to keep him from throwing himself into lifeboat as well. His smile was perhaps meant to reassure her, but there was a despair in it as well. Mary had never seen Matthew in such a miserable state. She wanted to reach up and take his hand again, to hold it one last time, to feel his familiar touch, for who could say when they'd be reunited?

And then she realized – they might not be.

There were hardly any men in the lifeboats already on the water. They were trying to get all the women and children in first, but it occurred to Mary that there might not be any left afterwards. Then what chance would Matthew – or Anthony or Tom, wherever they were – have to survive? The ship was listing steeply already, the bow was barely visible, and the water would only pull them down faster with each passing moment.

Mary's throat constricted, like she was suffocating. It felt so wrong, watching Matthew remain behind while she was hauled down to safety. She could not look away from him, but her chest seemed to cleave on its own as the distance between him and her became greater. Her eyes welled up with tears, and from the pain revealed in Matthew's face, she knew he saw her anguish. She shivered, but not from the cold – from imagining a life without him; it was one filled with guilt and grief, the memory of this icy night haunting her for as long as she lived. She knew she could never bear it, not now, not ever.

She stood up rapidly and stepped across to the side of lifeboat. Ignoring the crewman demanding for her to sit back down, she clambered over the edge, leaping out without a second's hesitation. The passengers cried aloud, some reaching out to pull her back. Her arms grappled across the bulwark of the lower deck, and for two seconds her legs dangled with nothing beneath them. She heard Matthew shout her name, the sound of his voice nearly making her loose her grip.

Two second-class men rushed forward and helped her over the edge, one holding her arms and the other her waist. "What're ye thinkin', Miss?" the latter man asked. "D'ye want t'die on this wreck?"

Mary did not answer him. Her only thought was to get to Matthew as fast as she could. Once she had both feet on the ground, she wasted no time in racing back inside. She did not stop, pushing people aside as she ran down the promenade deck. She was panting heavily, and crying too, almost blind from the moisture in her eyes. With all of her strength she threw herself against the closest door, which lead to the beautiful staircase now swarming with panicked passengers of all classes.

"Mary!" she heard Matthew cry out.

Whirling about, she saw him standing on one of the steps beside the ornate clock. With nothing in between them now, she dashed up the staircase, throwing herself into his arms. Her sobs shook her entire body.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she wept.

She might not be safe now, but that mattered least to her. Matthew was here again, with her, and she held him as though she could never be separated from him. His own tears dampened her face, and he fought to breathe through his gasps.

"Mary, how could you?" Matthew cried. "How could you?"

"I can't do it. I can't leave you," Mary choked out. "You said so yourself, on our first night here – we're safer when we're together."

Matthew looked at her, his cheeks streaked with wetness. "You're right. My God Mary, you're right." He pulled her close again, her sobs muffled against his shoulder. Mary clutched at the back of Matthew's jacket, her tears rolling down her face; her emotions were stronger than she had ever felt before.

"Please don't make me leave you again," she wailed, as if she hadn't heard what he had said before.

"I won't," Matthew promised. "I won't ever leave you again, I swear it."

He would never think about letting her out of her sight again – watching her descend in that lifeboat had been as painful as ripping his own heart from his body. No, he would not separate himself from Mary; he would fight to keep her with him until his dying breath.

For a long time they stood on those stairs, benumbed hands trembling as they entwined. The madness swirling around them disappeared, leaving them the only two people in the world. The chill hanging in the air dissolved as they remained locked in their embrace, heedless of everything except for the warmth of the other and the feel of pounding hearts through chests.

It was the long, slow groaning of the ship that rent them apart. The wood paneling of the staircase audibly creaked, and both of them remembered how the ship had made similar noise when they were below decks. Only now the sound did not cease – it wavered in and out, but it kept on in its thunder-like peal.

"What are we going to do now?" Mary asked apprehensively.

Matthew could not say for sure. Looking around the grand staircase, he could see how the angle of the windows at the sides were not straight, and the pace of everyone standing up was out of kilter. What would this place look like in ten minutes, thirty minutes?

"We have to stay on the ship as long as possible," Matthew said.

That seemed a risky prospect to Mary. "And how long will she stay afloat?"

"I don't know," was Matthew's fearful reply. "Not for much longer."

"And once she goes under completely …" Mary trailed off and she began to feel light-headed at the thought of  _Titanic_  sinking through the water. Where would they be by then? Dragged down to the bottom of the ocean along with her? Only a few minutes before had they watched several men leap from the deck, the contact with the water either throwing them into a panic or knocking them senseless.

Someone tapped Mary on the shoulder, and she looked behind her, at first thinking it might be one of her sisters. But it was Mr Guggenheim, coming down the stairs and trailed by one of his servants.

"Oh, Mr Guggenheim –  _what_  are you doing?" Mary gaped at what the American businessman was wearing: not a lifebelt, but his best evening attire, complete with his top hat and a rose in a buttonhole of his tailcoat. His servant had done the same. It seemed the most inappropriate outfit to be wearing in the middle of a crisis, and the sight of them appearing as if they were heading down to dinner made both of the Crawleys look on in puzzlement.

Mr Guggenheim held the white lifebelt at his side. "We've dressed up in our best and are prepared to go down as gentlemen," he declared. "No woman shall be left aboard this ship because Ben Guggenheim was a coward." He held the lifebelt out for Mary to take. "You need this thing more than I, my dear."

With both hands Mary took the lifebelt from Mr Guggenheim. "Thank you," she said softly. She understood what the man was doing – he was not fighting fate. There was sadness in his eyes certainly, but not terror, as had gripped so many others tonight.

Mr Guggenheim flagged down a steward passing around lifebelts to those still without them. He gestured to Matthew. "Give this gentlemen one of those odious vests and help him and his lady with them. God knows it took forever to put  _mine_ on."

He continued down the stairs, muttering loudly enough to be heard, "Now where can I get a brandy at this time of night?"

Both of the Crawleys cracked slight smiles. "Either the men leave the ship as cowards or they go down as heros," Mary said with admiration. She stood still as the steward laced the straps of the lifebelt. She felt awfully ridiculous wearing it.

"Either the women leave the ship with broken hearts or they remain by the side of whom they love," Matthew added.

The steward hastened away as soon as both of their lifebelts were secured around them, which actually took a few minutes because the poor boy's hands were trembling. In just a short while,  _Titanic_  was listing even more sharply – not only had the downward angle increased, but she was leaning slightly to port. The moaning and creaking had not stopped, and it was only growing louder and more intense. The passengers and crew were reacting with more urgency, running up to the boat deck with their lifebelts and some with small pieces of luggage – Mr Guggenheim and his valet, however, were lounging in the foyer chairs, smoking cigars and sipping brandies. They were the only ones to appear calm in the face of death.

Matthew looked behind him at the clock in the wall – the hands were at 1:56.  _We've made it to the end of this hour_ , he thought,  _but at the rate Titanic is going down, she won't make it to the end of the next._

* * *

By 1:41, all of the lifeboats on the starboard side had left, and ten minutes later all of the ones on the port side had been launched. Now begun the hasty task of pulling the collapsibles down from the upper deck, then cranking in the davits and hooking the falls up. The seamen were yet again unaccustomed to this job and struggled through the entire ordeal. The black throng of passengers still on the ship looked out from the lamplit decks and cried out to the lifeboats rowing away from the doomed liner to come back for them – so many still had room for dozens more – yet none would return. The sounds the ship was emitting made it seem that she was buckling: what would happen to her structure under the pressure of the water?

Mary and Matthew had arrived at the conclusion that Edith and Anthony escaped the sinking ship, yet as the Strallans fled to the starboard deck they realized they had been too late to get into the last lifeboat. Now all they could do was stand and wait, shivering and watching, listening to the formidable splashes of people still determined to fight for life. Duties were still being preformed; the band continued to play as though heedless of the deadly conviction, and deck stewards began to lash the chairs together and throw them overboard – frail rafts that may or may not aid some poor soul when the dreadful moment came.

Edith and Anthony stood close by to the collapsible boat C, yet the group around it was so dense that they realized this might not be one they could get it. Only moments before, a multitude of dishevelled people had emerged from below – someone had finally decided that it was time to let the steerage passenger out of their prison. A great group of men tried to rush the boat, but were harshly dragged back as the crew toiled as fast as they could to prepare the collapsible for launching. So they held back, back from the chaos that was overtaking the deck near the bridge, and looked away as yet another chance of rescue slipped away. They retreated close to where the deck chairs were being tied together and tossed into the water. Both of them silently came to realize their hopes were now incredibly slim. Neither of them could say anything to each other, not even to comfort each other as the ship quickly failed. All they could manage to do was hold onto each other and hope they would not be separated in the unpredictable moments to come.

As time moved sluggishly forward, Edith watched the deck stewards at their unusual chore, trying hard not to think of how close the moment may be when those floating chairs may be useful. She could hear the water slopping over the decks, washing against the iron hull, the splashes of those making pointless efforts to swim for the boats. The motion of the sea was hardly above a series of ripples, except around when a desperate soul threw themselves in. The sky above was even more peaceful – hundreds of stars, like a field of diamonds, like no other night sky that Edith had seen before. Only hours before she had seen the star-filled sky as she left dinner, and though its brightness had stood out to her, she hadn't given much thought to it otherwise. Now she was starting to wonder if this was the last night she'd ever see.

Her eyes rested on the men folding the deck chairs and lobbing them over the gunwales, as far away from the ship as they could. One of those men was not in a steward's uniform, and he wore the same expression as person deep in mourning.

"Mr Andrews," Edith said, loudly so she could hear him. He turned to her as he went to pick up another chair.

"Lady Strallan," he answered her, his voice choked with his malaise. "Did you find what you were looking for in second class?"

Sadly, Edith shook her head. Mr Andrews lowered his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"Please tell me – is there really no one coming to help us?" Edith asked.

Mr Andrews' eyes turned glassy, as if death was already settling in. "The bridge can't send out any more distress calls; the ship's power is too weak. The  _Carpathia_  is coming our way, but she's so far away that she won't come in time –  _Titanic_  will be gone by the time she gets here."

Her last fear confirmed, Edith blinked back her own tears. Anthony saw and turned to hold her in her arms.

"I'm sorry," Mr Andrews said, faltering. "I'm sorry  _Titanic_ could not live up to her expectations."

He had built a ship of dreams, of the greatest luxury and design; now it was nothing more than a doomed array of metal, destined to be swallowed up by the ocean. But even more heartbreaking were the lamentable fates of the hundreds still on board, his own included – the Strallans could see that he would not try to save himself. They could see the guilt in his tearful eyes: people had come aboard his ship to begin new lives or to add happy memories to their existing ones, but now their hopes, dreams, desires, loves were being confronted with the unknown, the high possibility of death like a shadow blanketing the sea.

Edith reached out for Mr Andrews' numb hand and grasped it firmly. She wanted to affirm to him that this was not his fault, that he had built something beautiful, that no one could have forseen this event. Though she knew that no words would ease his heart, she smiled up at him. Mr Andrews gave a sorrowful smile, likely the last one to ever appear on his face.

"Good luck to you, Lady Edith. And to you, Sir Anthony," he said. And he walked off through the first-class entrance, past where the Crawleys were standing on the staircase, away from the clock whose hands read 1:57, and into the smoke room.

 _To think that's the same man who welcomed us so warmly during our first luncheon,_  Edith thought. How many days ago had that occurred?

She looked over to where the collapsible boat had just been lowered the short distance to the water, and several men were working to get the next one to off the roof of the officer's quarters. "We need to go the other side," she told Anthony. "They ought to have another one ready, or ready soon."

They'd have to go all the way towards the stern and around to the port side. It would not be an easy journey or a fast one: so many people were already hurrying aft, and the deck angle was getting steeper by the minute. Still, they had to try to make it in time – what other chances did they have to take?

"Right then," Anthony said, inhaling deeply like a soldier about to step onto the battlefield. "But there's one more thing—"

"What?" Edith asked, confused.

Anthony brought his head down to her level and kissed her on the lips. "I love you so terribly much. I needed you to hear me say it. You have made my life complete."

Edith looked tenderly up at him, her hands cupping his worn face. "I don't need to hear it to know you do; I can feel it." And she kissed him back, staying where she was for as long as she was able to. If she could have, she would have stayed forever that way, knowing he was what she held dearest in the world. He had made her life complete as well.

"Now we go," she stated bravely.

And so they disappeared into the teeming mass of humanity, the whole of which was stricken at last with the fear of death, scrambling and shoving away from the chasm of water surging higher and higher. The ship still burned with golden light, and the strains of the band could still be heard from some corner of the deck, yet deck chairs kept getting tossed overboard, people kept shoving forward to get to the collapsible; there was no control, no logic to actions anymore.

As soon as they had watched Mr Andrews retreat forlornly into the smoke room, Mary and Matthew went back outside, where they saw the world dissolved into chaos and water spilling onto the boat deck. There was a mass of passengers covering the deck all the way across, faced towards the sunken bow and the last evacuation boats. Still the officers shouted for any women and children to come forward before they launched another collapsible, but Mary did not even think about abandoning Matthew at this point. On top of the bridge she could see the crew trying to free the other collapsibles, but the slant of the ship was making it nearly impossible.

"We have to move towards the stern," she heard Matthew say to her over the dire cacophony of yelling and swirling water. "We have to stay on board as long as possible."

Mary nodded, understanding, though she realized it would be harder to proceed across the length of  _Titanic_  with the sharp angle she was at. She turned towards the stern, and she saw how it was slightly higher than the area she was standing on. Beneath her feet she could feel the ship settling like a rock, the wood vibrating as the sloping of the deck became more abrupt. She tried to walk on her own, but her steps were unsteady, less from the tilting deck than her own shakiness.

"Come here," Matthew said, wrapping one arm around her waist and holding on to her wrist. He began to lead her up the deck, following where the huge throng was madly scrabbling to. His own steps were awkward, yet he held on to her as if the sea would pull her away any minute. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Mary swallowed nervously and nodded, even though she knew his words were only for solace. There would be only so much he could do in the moments to come.

That was when she heard the music. The band had been playing continuously during this ordeal, but it was this certain song, a familiar hymn, that sent a painful rupture through her heart. The way those musicians played now, bows singing forlornly against the strings, made it seem that they had resigned themselves to their sad fate. Like a poignant requiem, the slow notes of the hymn rang out across the half-submerged ship, merging with the sounds of panic.

Mary fell out of Matthew's grasp and stood motionless, listening, transfixed by the haunting melody. Her lips parted and trembled, and her heart beat slow and hard. She found herself trying to remember the words; she could not recall much, a few lines here and there, but all the same she was left shaken by it. Despite what the song was really supposed to convey, that meaning was lost – tonight it sounded only of ultimate grief.

Somehow, she knew that this final hymn to the sea might very well be the last music she ever heard.

_Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,_

_Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;_

_Angels to beckon me, nearer, my God, to Thee;_

_Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee …_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *petrified sobbing*
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1: Going by notes on when the lifeboats were launched, Mary is placed in Boat #2, which launched at approx. 1:45am. It was the third-to-last lifeboat launched before the collapsibles began to be loaded.
> 
> 2\. Benjamin Guggenheim, after seeing his mistress into a lifeboat, went back to his room and changed into white tie, his valet dressing up along with him. He was heard to remark, "We've dressed up in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen." They were last seen by the Grand Staircase with cigars and brandies in hand, and their bodies were never recovered.
> 
> 3\. Thomas Andrews was seen by passengers to be aiding the deck stewards in throwing chairs over the side so they could be used later. What happened to him during his last moments is unclear: one steward claimed to have seen him in the smoking room, contemplating in front of the fireplace, about ten minutes before the ship went down. Others stated that he was seen later going to the bridge, possibly to look for Captain Smith. If he ever tried to leave the ship, it was at the very last minute. His body was never recovered.
> 
> 4\. The last song played by the Titanic band is a mystery. Some insist that it was "Nearer, my God, to Thee," but which version was played is unclear (there are at least two melodies of the hymn that were played in 1912). Others claim it was the song "Autumn." I put my money on "Nearer, my God, to Thee" for several reasons: first, several passengers who had been on Titanic or close to her during the final moments remained unable to listen to the song because of the emotion it evoked. Second, it was the bandleader Wallace Hartley's favourite hymn, and had wished to have it preformed at his funeral. He, like all the other Titanic musicians, perished as she sank. Hartley's body and his violin case were recovered two weeks after the sinking, and his funeral was attended by over a thousand people. The violin he played was found in May 2013 in a Briton's attic after two years of trace analysis; in October 2013 it was auctioned off for £900,000 ($1,454,400).


	12. Death of Titanic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this is a really long chapter, but I couldn't decide where to separate it into two. I suppose I want to convey the sense that what happens from this point to the end, at about 2:20 am, is less than a twenty minute span, so it all happens fairly quickly.
> 
> Just keep calm. It's going to be alright.

_2:03_

_Titanic_ began to plunge swiftly by her bow, and the green water around her hull was no longer so serene – it began to foam around her, waves crashing against the railing of the bridge, seeping up to the boat deck from the A deck stairwell. The forecastle was well out of sight, though the crow's nest still poked above the waves, leaning forward slightly. The incessant moaning and grating of her structure mingled with screams of terror, and the noise was deafening. Now the music of the band had stopped for good, and there was nothing to distract the panic-stricken souls from the threat of death. No one seemed to accept their fate calmly as they scrambled for safety towards the stern, some leaping off the ropes hanging from the davits so not to be swallowed up by the water as it came rushing up the sides of the ship. Almost all were screaming, gasping for breath, calling out for help from the lifeboats – their pitiful cries filled the air, and even the farthest lifeboat could not block out those haunting sounds.

Mary held tightly onto Matthew as he helped her plod up the deck, eyes up towards the stern that was rising higher and higher as the water forced the bow down. There were so many people clambering around them, jostling them so forcefully that she was afraid she'd accidentally let go of Matthew. She struggled to keep breathing, to keep a clear head in the midst of insanity. Matthew was fighting against his own very real fear of what was coming – once they got to the edge of the stern, what more would they be able to do? Wait for the ship to carry them down?

They moved past steerage passengers who had known of the crisis that had befallen  _Titanic_  from the start, and others from the higher classes that had remained in blissful denial until this moment. As the ice-cold water rose through and over the ship, they could only look behind them, terrified as the truth became obvious. The encroaching waves were a bigger foe than any of them had ever faced in their lives.

As Mary and Matthew hurried up the port side of the deck, Edith and Anthony struggled up the starboard side, away from the collapsible about to be thrown from above the roof of the wheel house. The officers were still shouting out orders, but they were just as panicked as anyone else, and the commands of "don't hook up those tackles" and "I need a knife" came out as sharp screeches. A body of men rushed around the boat as it skidded down to the deck with a crashing thud. By that time, there were too many people between the Strallans and the boat, and they didn't think about turning around and racing back for that one.

The deck seemed to stretch out in front of them, appearing twice as long than it really was. Anthony panted hard, his lungs stinging with the frosty night air. He was straining to keep going, though the most malignant part of his brain were telling him to stop, to give up.  _No_! he shamed himself,  _I can't stop until Edith is safe, until both of us are safe_.

He felt Edith's hands around his upper arm and shoulders, urging him forward up the slanting deck. He nodded gratefully to her, bracing himself against the wall to his right as Edith supported him at his left. She was puffing almost as much as he was, but they sounded like anxious breaths, drawn in as her hope seeped away little by little. She and Anthony were forced to halt as a swarm of people burst out between the doors of the gymnasium, where they had been keeping warm and oblivious to the sudden peril.

"So many people," she whimpered. Just how many souls were left on this ship? – hundreds, it seemed, maybe even over a thousand. More than a thousand souls screaming in terror and running for nowhere. What good had those lifeboats been if they hadn't saved even half of her passengers?

She felt Anthony fumble for her hands, saying, "We've got to keep moving." He could barely be heard over the hellish din. Nodding, Edith gasping as she impelled her legs to keep trudging forward.  _All I wanted to do tonight was sleep_ , she thought,  _but instead I'm struggling to stay alive._

They climbed further up the sloping deck, as fast as their enervated limbs could carry them, their minds going blank as they thought of nothing but getting to the other side, where luck might grant them escape on the last collapsible. The world seemed to whirl around them as the terrified masses fled either towards the stern or over the railing. The lights on the walls gradually flickered off, then came back on a second later – was it possible that this ship still had power? It wouldn't for much longer still, Edith guessed.

On the other side of the ship, Mary and Matthew had nearly made it to the end of the boat deck, yet they still had a long way to go before they reached the stern. From the way the far end of the ship was lifting high in the air, Mary feared they wouldn't make it before the ship slid into the sea. She leaned over the railing, bending down to see the deck below them.

"There's no way down!" she cried. "How are we going to get down?"

Matthew stood beside her and bent across the railing, his head turning to each side – there were in fact no stairs down to A deck. People were making the jump across, or climbing down as if the railing was a short ladder; either approach appeared to be the only way to get to the deck below.

"We're going to have to climb down," Matthew said decisively.

Mary looked down again. "It's too far to jump; I'll break my legs for sure," she said apprehensively.

"There's no other way," Matthew said. He put his foot on the lowest rung of the railing and swung his other leg over. "I'll go first, and then I'll help you down. Trust me."

_Of course I trust you,_ Mary wanted to say to him, but there was no time for sentimentality. She anxiously gripped the cold metal bars as she watched Matthew lower himself to the other side, his hands scaling down the rungs, his body disappearing below the deck she was still standing on – he was then grasping the edge of the platform, his legs dangling high above the floor. The passengers on A deck darted around his suspended feet, some accidentally bumping into him and making them swing. For a split second Matthew seemed about to let go and fall the rest of the way, consciously ignoring the considerable chance that he'd sprain his ankles or be trampled by the scattered crowd, but someone or several someones grabbed ahold of his legs. Mary couldn't bring herself to watch as him released his hold and dropped down, his knees buckling underneath him and his head ducking out of sight.

"Matthew!" Mary shouted, pressing her stomach across the railing and searching for his face amidst the swarming crowd.  _Please God, don't let him be hurt …_

One of the men who had grabbed at Matthew's shins helped him pick himself up. The bones in his feet smarted painfully, but he could stand alright, and if he could stand he could move forward, once Mary lowered herself down to his level.

Mary heaved a grateful sigh when she saw Matthew look up at her – maybe God hadn't completely forsaken them tonight. But it was her turn now to make the fall, and she couldn't help but imagine all the nasty things that would happen to her body once she hit the ground.

"Mary, don't worry, I've got you," Matthew called up. "Hurry!"

Trying not to think at all, Mary placed her foot on the lowest rung, just as she had seen Matthew do seconds before. She lifted a leg over the banister, briefly straddling it; her skirts were bunched around her in an odd pile, but modesty was really the last thing on her mind right now. She pulled her other leg over to the other side, her hands clutching the railing harder.

_Don't look down, do not look even for a second,_ she told herself.

Tentatively, she clasped the bottom edge of the railing, crouching with her feet and her hands nearly touching. As she hesitated, she heard Matthew call out her name again. Shutting her eyes tight, knowing there was only one direction she could go from this point, she let her legs dangle underneath her. Her feet hung down precariously with nothing between her and the ground several feet below – she felt Matthew's familiar hands on her legs, promising not to let her plummet to the deck. She let go, feeling her body fall through the empty air for an instant before shaking hands grasped her waist.

She grunted as she felt her legs slide out from under her, her calves scraping against the wooden planks. Behind her, Matthew had fallen to his knees, but his arms were still around her. "I've got you, Mary," he assured her. "Don't worry, I've got you.

Mary uttered a raspy gasp; she realized she had been holding her breath the entire time. Her eyes flew open and met with the sight of people inches away from her milling about in perfect confusion, pushing further aft, some leaning over the gunwale. She looked away as one man took a woman by the arm and helped her jump, disappearing below the deck, their plunge into the ocean masked by the raging swell. There was screaming, crying, loud praying – she wished she could shut her ears, grow deaf in an instant – those were sounds she herself wanted to make. And yet still others stood against the wall, eyes closed in silent invocation, some muttering a psalm under their breath.

Quickly, Matthew brought her to her feet and pulled her through the crowd. "This way, over the rail," he said.

Together, they clambered over the aft rail, and Matthew lowered Mary down to the platform directly below, halfway down to the B-deck. His hand never let go of hers as she fell, and he jumped down behind her.

They were pushed into a crushing horde of people, literally clawing their way through and ramming past others to get to the narrow stairs leading down to the well deck. The stairs were only wide enough for one person, but in the current situation it seemed impossible for anyone to get through. Behind them, they could hear glass crashing and water rushing through the corridors below, engulfing prized possessions and perhaps loved ones. Mary clasped Matthew's hand tighter, knowing that within a second she could be ripped from him and swallowed up by the unhinged crowd. The thought that she might be separated from him in the middle of this havoc was more terrifying than the reality that  _Titanic_  had minutes left above the water.

Matthew craned his head up, looking over the heads of the throng. His face was strained and pale, Mary saw, yet there was still a glimmer of determination in his eyes underneath the fear. What she was unaware of was that it was determination to keep Mary alive, even if it meant sacrificing his own life. He would not allow death to befall her while there was still breath in his body.

He realized there was no way they could descend the obstructed stairs without being separated. With all of his strength he shoved through the crowd with one arm, his other hand still held by both of Mary's. "What are you doing?" she cried out, but he halted just a few feet away from the stairwell, in front of the electric crane that Mary had always viewed as such a hideous mechanism. Now she was figuring out that it was their best way to the well deck.

Once more scrambling over a railing, they stepped down onto the pedestal, the long arm of the crane extended high above them, pointing towards the stern as if to remind them of the direction of their destination. Mary could feel the precarious slope of the ship, and her steps were stilted as she moved around the machinery, her grip on Matthew's hand so strong that her fingers felt as though they were about to snap. The thin pitch pine boards of the deck seemed a long distance away, even if she knew that they were really only a ten foot drop away, and she hesitated at the brink.

"Don't think – just jump!" Matthew shouted over the noise. At once, Mary stepped off the edge, her hand still attached to Matthew's, and for a second she dangled in the air as she hung on to him. Then her hand broke free and she tumbled into a heap on the deck, gasping as her face smacked the wood. She could feel the vibrations of the scattered footsteps through her cheek, and she raised her head as Matthew dropped down next to her.

"I'm alright," she said quickly as Matthew lifted her to her feet.

Pushed forwards by the seething crowd, thicker here on this deck with so many terror-struck steerage passengers who had only just found their way outside, Mary and Matthew found themselves being jostled across the short well deck. The mass surrounding them was so dense that neither of them could see the gunwales at each side. They were all shoving forward to the narrow staircases leading up to the aftermost deck. Mary gripped Matthew's arm now, the constriction within the middle of the crowd revitalizing the fear that she'd be separated from Matthew again.

The shouts, shrieking, cries of confusion all became one synchronized scream as the lights steadily flickered out, but even as they came back on a few seconds later the great scream rose to a crescendo as the ship groaned and shuddered violently – there was a crashing noise, like something was collapsing. Everyone, including the Crawleys, heard four sharp thudding sounds, like dull explosions from inside. The ship's bow dipped suddenly, heaving up the stern even further, and for a moment there was no movement on the well deck as each person froze in fearful anticipation.

Still on the boat deck, Edith and Anthony had just rounded the corner to the other side of the ship, and they halted mid-step as the low rumbles resounded, one after the other. Being so close to the bow, they certainly felt it as it abruptly dove down, and Edith gave a piercing shriek as she got the impression that the ship had lurched forward. Passengers began to rush out of the first-class entrance, one crewman shouting at the top of his lungs for them to go aft.

"Hurry! Save yourselves," he yelled.

The Strallans blatantly ignored him, moving ploddingly down the declining deck – one misstep and either of them could be injured, and then they'd be done for.

"Only God can save them now," Edith said. Yet the way things had gone tonight, God certainly was not on their side tonight.

They fought against the current of passengers racing for the stern, occasionally being pushed back a short distance. It had taken them a long while to get to the end of the starboard side of the promenade, but it was taking much more time to reach the far end of the port side. Their heavy steps seemed to drag as the minutes flew by, bringing the end just a little bit closer.

"Don't worry Anthony, I think we're almost there," Edith reassured Anthony as she heard him inhale a cracked breath. To him, his chest felt as if it might implode any minute. What an inopportune time it would be to have a heart attack right now. He strained to keep his balance on the sloping deck, one hand sliding across the wall to brace himself. Looking up, he couldn't see the end of the ship where she was still above water, yet he trusted Edith's word. It was the only thing that was keeping him going.

_Oh, how glad I'll be when this is all over_ , he thought.  _And to think all of this is happening because of one ruddy iceberg._

The next sight he and Edith laid eyes on, however, reinvigorated both of their enervated spirits. At the forward end, they could see a single lifeboat lying upside down on the deck, crew and passengers attempting to put it the right way up.

"There it is!" Anthony pointed.  _It's our last chance_.

He and Edith ran together towards that last hope of survival, past those rushing away from the plunging bow. They did not wait around for someone to appeal for their aid: they immediately crouched down on either side of the boat, Edith pulling back at the top and Anthony lifting up the rim. He gritted his teeth, pushing with all the force he could muster. At another time, he might stop and wonder how an old man like him still had any degree of strength in him.

Edith, the only woman among those desperate workers, seemed to toil hardest of all: her eyes were screwed up and her jaw was clenched, her knuckles going white from gripping the keel of the boat so tightly. She cried out as she strained, gasping painfully and almost stumbling backwards from her intense exertion.

"On the count of three: one, two three!" yelled an officer. Everyone around the boat pushed in unison, but the boat hardly budged. It was far heavier than it looked, and perhaps the exhaustions of the manic night were finally settling in.

"Come on, harder!" the officer shouted.

Everyone was grunting and straining, and two men had gotten the oars and were trying to lift it up; even with their combined efforts, the stubborn boat refused to overturn.

The ship groaned and creaked, metal screeching and buckling. Simultaneously, everyone stopped and looked around fearfully, listening to the sounds of the dying ship. The lights went out again for about four seconds, then came back on, fainter than before.

Then, the entire vessel seemed to tremble. The glass window panes shook and pulleys swung, the iron hull moaning like a giant in agony.

"What's happening?" Edith cried out.

As soon as she spoke, the roar of rushing water became louder. Instinctively, Anthony threw his hand out over the top of the boat, and Edith grabbed it. She saw his lips move, but his words were drowned out by the thundering of the waves slapping against their deck, inches from their feet. Yet still she knew what he had said to her – he said it so often that all she needed was to see the movement of his mouth as he uttered those precious words.

"I love you, my sweet one."

The water surged forward and swirled around their ankles as waves did against a steep shore. Edith gasped aloud as the frigid blue sea lapped around her legs and dragged down her skirt; through the skin of her shoes she could feel how incredibly icy the ocean was tonight. Behind her, she could hear the panicked shouts of those already immersed in the water and she knew that their cries were also because of the pain overtaking their poorly-clad bodies.

She was taken by surprise when Anthony reached further up the arm she had extended over the top of the lifeboat, but she quickly realized that he was trying to pull her over to him. With her free hand she grasped the keel, stomach skimming across the hull and legs kicking as they were lifted out of the water that was threatening to displace the entire boat. Anthony pulled her close, one arm around the back of her lifebelt and the other underneath her shoulder. Only a few seconds had passed, yet the water was gushing furiously at his knees now.

"Hold on to me tightly," he said into her ear so she'd hear him well. "Hold on to me as tightly as you can."

Edith would not have done otherwise. She encircled her arms around Anthony's neck just as another great wave rose up and sloshed over the hull of the lifeboat. The other men that had struggled to overturn the boat lost their balance and groped for the boat, the deck, the wall, anything to grip so the water would not carry them away. Yet that did happen to some, the sea taking control of their bodies with all of the force of a creature from hell, pulling them underwater or throwing them against the sides of the ship. The lookout stations were now completely submerged.

Anthony, still holding onto Edith, turned around and held both of their bodies to the wall, his shielding hers from the rushing water. He could not allow her to be wrested away from him, and he did not want her to watch as the water seethed up around them.  _Titanic_ was sinking so fast underneath their feet, however, and he felt his feet slide against the sloping deck; at the same the cold water seemed to pry away his fingers gripping the railing in the wall. The rest of the men around them either scrambled to climb back up the deck, the water chasing angrily after them, or desperately clung to the keel of the lifeboat and hoisted themselves up. It was not long before many resigned themselves to what was meant to happen and let themselves be swallowed up.

Gelid foam sprayed into Edith's mouth and she sputtered, gasping as flecks of cold water dotted her face. She could shut her eyes to avoid watching it rise higher and higher, but she could not ignore the feeling of it lashing out at her bare face; neither could she block out the roaring of the surge, nor the helpless wails of the souls being overwhelmed by the force of it.

And as the water grabbed ahold of her limbs and swept her and Anthony away from the wall, she screamed too. Its power nearly overwhelmed her in that moment – the cold slicing through her skin like a sword, choking and blinding her as it hurtled her in some unknown direction. Her eyes were still shut, and either she heard the sounds of the terrified people and the groaning of the ship or the almost silent swash of water when her head went under. She kept her grip on Anthony, and he did likewise with her, and their lifebelts were the only things preventing them from drowning immediately.

Her back slammed hard against something, and Anthony grunted as the turbulent swell forced him against the same surface. The combined force of their bodies as well as that of the surge destroyed the window they had crashed into, snapping the thin wood frame and shattering glass. Edith felt something sharp – either a shard or a splinter – slice across her hand as she fell onto the patterned floor. Anthony tumbled down next to her, groaning, and behind him the water cascaded through the broken window.

Before them was the beautiful staircase, the very same that had taken their breath away upon entering  _Titanic_ , yet its elegance was now blighted with some of the worst terror that humanity had experienced. The bright green water was rising rapidly – the stairs were almost completely submerged, the statue on the bannister was quickly disappearing, and surge was lapping ferociously at the ornate clock on the wall. Chairs and vases were bobbing up and down, and windows were coming to bits as the current on deck burst through. So many of third-class, who had been the last to escape the confines of steerage, were among those trapped in the flood, crying out as they were overcome. They were dying amidst the very beauty a good deal of them must have dreamed of seeing.

Edith staggered away from the shattered windowpanes, trying to pull a dazed Anthony along with her. He stumbled forward, collapsing against the bannister overlooking the stairs, or what remained of them. Edith gasped for breath, holding onto the nearby column to keep her balance; her legs and hands were already numbing. She turned her head frenetically around the now-grim room and her eyes rested on the clock across the room, the figures of Honour and Glory waist-deep in the water.

Before the water completely obscured the face, she saw the hands of the clock pointed at 2:10.

She heard the wood panels creaking, and beneath the surface of the water the railings began to rip from the floor. The A deck level was now almost completely submerged, and the flood poured through the curls of the iron supporting the bannisters, once again sending a smarting pain through Edith's feet. She wrapped one arm around the column she was slumping against, and the other held onto Anthony. He grasped her arm, standing up as best he could, his own eyes wide with horror at the scene unfolding before him.

The ship gave a tremendous groan that lasted for several fraught seconds, and the whole room shuddered somewhat. It felt like they were in the belly of a beast waking up and intending to consume them all. Both Edith and Anthony shuddered as the ship trembled all around them and their eyes darted around the devastated room.

Then, with an ear-splitting crash, the glass dome overhead exploded inwards, a torrential downpour bursting through.

The lights flickered out of control, the room shifting quickly between dim and blindingly-bright like in a lightning-storm. The waterfall thundered through the hole in the glass-and-iron ceiling, filling the empty space with all of its terrible rage. Edith and Anthony were stone-still as the violent deluge rushed up to the boat deck and submerged them to their waists within seconds. Sparks rained down, the white foam rolled across the floor, and mist sprayed through the air with stinging force.

Edith screamed, adding her own wretched cry to the din echoing across the ship. She was in absolute agony, the freezing water engulfing her entire body with immense pressure, the spray of the monstrous cascade seemingly lacerating her face. Her hands were clenched fast to Anthony, and that was all that told her he was still beside her.

The water spilled over her head, and then all she could hear was the muted slosh of limbs listlessly flailing about. Beneath the murkiness the lights could still be seen blazing and dimming in successive flashes, but before long there was nothing but darkness, complete and profound darkness. All she was aware of were her arms entwined around Anthony's body and the strange soundlessness that surrounded them.

* * *

Both Mary and Matthew had made it to the narrow stairs, were at the moment on the middle of it, when the forward funnel broke from its mounts. They heard the stay cables at the top of the funnel snap, the sound like artillery, and lash like steel whips across the water. Mary, standing in front of Matthew, spun around and watched as the huge red shaft toppled steadily, one side bending and grating. It plummeted to the water with a tremendous splash, the ocean rising up around it like a tsunami, washing over the bridge. The people who had been swimming for their lives underneath its path disappeared in an instant.

Mary froze for a moment, realizing  _Titanic'_ s sturdy structure was breaking apart, and Death had already swung his scythe across the sea. She felt Matthew's hand on her back, urging her on. Both of them climbed onto the deck, the railing of the stern in clear sight, and neither of them stopped struggling onwards even as they heard the crashing of glass and the roar of water behind them, and the screams of the those trapped inside. The compulsion to jump was epidemic, and passengers were leaping from the stern, the well deck, the gangway doors.

All across the rearmost deck, hundreds of passengers clung to any object they could get their hands around – the bars of the railing, the capstans, the fixed benches, anything that would not slide away – yet Mary and Matthew kept climbing upwards, pushing through the huddled masses. They fought to keep their footing on the angled deck, yet as  _Titanic's_ stern lifted higher into the air, Matthew had to pull himself along from any handholds he could grasp. With every ounce of strength he had left he hauled himself and Mary closer to the end of the ship, forcing his way by those who had stopped, staring blankly across the sea, contemplating throwing themselves over the railing. A large group was on their knees before a clergyman, his prayer carrying above the wailing and tearful confessions.

They were only about fifteen feet away from the tail end of the deck when Mary felt herself slipping, the ship tipping too steeply. Next to her, a man stumbled and slid down the smooth wood, his hands scraping for something to grasp. He was stopped only when his legs ploughed against a capstan with a hideous crunch. Mary leaned forward to steady herself, her arms fully extended as she clasped Matthew's hand. Matthew turned around and tugged her closer to him.

"Come on!" he cried, his heart nearly stopping as he glimpsed Mary straining to stay upright. His other arm reached out for the railing – they were so close to it, they couldn't stop now, not even for half a second …

_Titanic_ lurched again, and the lights blinked out again. When they came on again, he saw his hand inches away from the railing. Pushing against the balls of his feet, Matthew lunged for the railing, jamming himself between the other people clustered here, fingers clenched around the thin pole with excruciating tightness. Mary pulled herself to the edge, throwing her arms over the thin barrier between her and the sea. She panted heavily, her very bones leaden with weariness.

They had made it – they had reached the stern together, and now all they could do was wait for what horrible fate would be thrown at them now.

Mary gasped as she felt the ship list further, and she looked up at Matthew, his back to the huge black sea. Quickly, he pulled her against him, one arm wrapped around her back. Mary shivered in agony; now that she was standing still, she felt the cold air stinging her cheeks again, but that was far from the most horrible feeling of this moment. Only a few short days before, she had first seen  _Titanic_  in her colossal elegance; yet here she was, clinging to Matthew and the rail for all that she was worth, the ship plunging down to a watery grave, and unless a miracle were to happen in the next few moments, they would be dragged down with her wreck.

She dared to peer over the edge, and her insides churned as she understood just how dizziyingly high the stern was rising. Anyone who fell from this height would surely be killed.

"Oh, Matthew …" she moaned.

"Shh," he said soothingly. "We'll be alright … we'll be alright."

He spoke to her knowing the lie in his words, though it was the only thing he could think of doing. If he could console her in some small way, that would be enough for now.

Both of them looked across the doomed ship, at all the doomed souls she had carried, who clung to her with desperations. They heard the clergyman doing his best to continue his harrowing prayer, mothers comforting their children, pleas for the lifeboats to return, and through it all the screams and the splashes. Mary glanced up at Matthew, and her heart twisted in her chest – his eyes were infinitely sad.

"My God," he said breathlessly. "Please don't look, Mary."

But she could not look away – neither of them could. They stood at the highest point of the sinking ship, helplessly observing her destruction as it happened before them. A languorous eternity seemed to pass during those few minutes  _Titanic_  had left, and they could only wait and shiver and hold on fast to each other.

* * *

_The gradual end of Titanic lasted for only a short fraction of that long night, but within those few moments when life and death coiled around her hull, the pinnacle of human agony came to pass._

_Through the luxurious rooms and the clean white corridors, the water no longer trickled steadily, but now it raged through the ship with wrathful power. Its force splintered walls and doors, shattered windows and portholes and the electric light fixtures. Within seconds, the staterooms of the Strallans and the Crawleys were submerged, their possessions thrown about, and all of the doors were reduced to kindling by the water that rushed inside from the private promenade. The flood roiled with incredible speed, swallowing up anyone still trapped deep within. Their bodies drifted in the murky sea, clothes billowing around them as ghostlike tendrils, faces either peaceful or terrified._

_Above the thundering torrent and the clamour of the crowds on deck came the deafening sounds of the ship being devastated. The huge boilers rumbled as they tore from their steel beds, spawning a succession of hollow explosions; sparks shot and crackled from one of the remaining funnels. As the tilt of the ship increased so that the propellors were high above the water, a great clatter arose: cupboards burst open china dishes shattering across the floor, furniture snapping as it collided with the walls, the pianos turning over and crashing – anything not bolted down rolled, collapsed, or tumbled down, much being destroyed in the process. Glassware, deck chairs, tables, trunks, anchor chains …_

_And so did the passengers; the deck lay at such a steep angle that few had the strength to climb upwards anymore. Anyone not holding onto something slid across the wooden promenades, their hands scrabbling for a grip, shrieking as they slipped down into the water. They fell from the deck railings singly, in groups, in pairs, hitting the water like heavy slabs of stone._

_On the dark serene horizon, the stern of Titanic could be see raised high above the ocean and the men and women still scrambling up for one last struggle for life were nothing but tiny forsaken specks in a huddled swarm. The bright lights were reflected in the water, illuminating that horrible scene so clearly. The propellors were hundreds of feet above the water, and the ship's incline was at forty-five degrees. A ring of white rippled out from beneath the looming hull as more and more people splashed down. Their heads and shoulders resurfaced, flailing, fighting to swim as far away from the ship as possible._

_To those in the lifeboats, the sight of Titanic suspended between the stars and the water, still ablaze with light, of the people clinging onto anything they could hold, the wild thrashing of those being overwhelmed by the freezing ocean was etched forever in their memories. The distant sounds of glass shattering, the iron hull groaning like some monstrous leviathan, and the unending screams would echo through the years to come. The prodigy that so many believed was unsinkable was brutally proving the entire world wrong. She was not simply quietly settling into the ocean as she had done so for the last two hours – she towered as an impossible spectacle for only a few moments, and they were the worst everyone there would ever witness._

_That night was one that would never be forgotten._

* * *

"Mary, don't look!" Matthew yelled as, before his terrified eyes, he watched the man beside him lose his grip from the stern railing and plummet through the air. He heard the sickening smack as that body knocked against one of the propellor blades, and then the splash, the sound masked beneath all the others happening at once.

Mary clasped around the railing tighter still, her eyes shutting out the sight of the black water far below, speckled with foam from all the fallen passengers thrashing about. The cold was making her shiver, her hot breath visible before her lips. Her ears rang with the awful screams, the useless pleading, and her heart was stricken with dread as the  _Titanic_  rumbled ceaselessly.

"Please, just let it end," she cried. "God, just let this all be over."

Matthew's hand around her back stiffened; he did not want to hear her talk like that. "It will Mary, it will be over soon."

Neither of them wished for the end of  _Titanic_  to come, needless to say – they only wanted the horror of the moment to stop, to no longer see the death ensuing all around them.

The ship listed furthur, and Mary gasped as she felt the rail quiver inside her hands. "Keep holding on," Matthew told her. He pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the bars. It was harder to keep their feet to the deck floor at this angle – just how far could the ship lean down into the water, raising her stern up like a finger pointing to the heavens?

Matthew looked behind him to see the ship's lights flicker again, then come back on in a sputtering flash. He could hear two more dull explosions closer to the middle of the ship, but he couldn't be sure if it was machinery, the engines, the hull—

_Titanic's_ lights burned for just another second, then went out completely. The entire ship was plunged into complete darkness.

The startled screams of the people still clinging to the deck were overshadowed only by the hollow groaning of the vessel. The loss of light changed everything in a second. While they had continued to glow, some form of hope had remained, hope that there might be a miracle – a passing ship seeing them on the horizon. With the power gone, that hope died in an instant.

Mary did not cry out as most others did at the shock of the sudden darkness. Instead, her breathing became ragged and her heart pounded madly.  _What happens to us now?_ she thought.  _How much longer must we hold on like this?_

Her will to hold on was waning, and Matthew, his body the only barrier between her and the declining decks, was the sole reason her arms stayed clamped to the rail.  _I can't give up when he hasn't._ She knew Matthew would not allow her to die, not even at this fatal moment.

The rumbling of the second funnel detaching from the mount and and slid into the water, was barely discernable at the stern. But a moment later, a more severe noise blasted through the night: a report like thunder crashing. Mary jolted as she remembered the gunshots from earlier, when the lifeboats were being loaded; she realized it wasn't a revolver being fired, but wood planks snapping from the promenades. And within seconds, it escalated to steel breaking, glass windows shattering, explosions, jagged metal being thrown into the water …

Matthew whipped his head around, and almost at the surface of the water, he could see the sparks and fires lighting the structure of the ship – where she had ripped apart. Right between the remaining funnels, a gaping maw had opened up all the way across the decks. Smoke was spewing out from the chasm, and a few unfortunates were falling into it, into that crevasse of bright sparks and snapping steel frames.

Immediately, the suspended half of  _Titanic_  hurtled back down to the water. The roar of screams went up as everyone felt the ship plummet hundreds of feet, the keel forcefully splashing down into the ocean. Mary's breath felt like it had been sucked from her lungs, and her stomach lurch enough to make her feel sick. She was aware of Matthew's fingers digging deep into her skin. They seemed to be the only ones not shrieking at the terrible dropping sensation. For those few horrible seconds Mary watched as the water rushed up, and as the deck levelled violently her knees gave out and her fingers gripping the rail slackened; Matthew's arm still locked around her caught her from totally collapsing. The massive wave that the rose up sprayed upwards, dotting both of their faces with stinging drops of water.

The ship had seemingly righted itself, and around the deck there were several sighs and cries of relief. "We're saved, thank God!" one woman sang out.

Mary turned to face Matthew, who shook his head grimly – the ship had torn in half, and the water would flood through the exposed spaces in minutes. They'd sink down, just as the dissevered bow had done.

Yet that was not how things were to play out.

The last two funnels toppled across the boat deck, the one closest to the stern hanging off the edge for several beats before it turnt over, ripping away the gunwale and davits. The split end began to slide down, pulling the propellors out of the water and tilting the stern up – it had happened so rapidly that Matthew barely had time to register the fact that they were rising up once again. He had no clue as to how the sundered ship was once again lifting high, much faster than before, but he was quickly realizing that in seconds, the deck would be perpendicular to the water. Mary's arms wrapped around the railing again as she felt the upwards rush. How was this physically possible? This unexpected turn of events frightened her more than if they had simply descended into the sea.

People were falling again, sliding headlong into benches and hurdles, flailing helplessly as they tumbled off the broken planks and into the seething ocean. Some latched onto others and pulled them down as well. Bodies began to pile up at the railings, limbs swinging vigourlessly.

Mary felt Matthew's hand leave her waist, and she yelled out his name, thinking he had fallen. But he was still by her, climbing swiftly over the railing as it began to turn horizontal.

"Mary, you need to move!" he shouted. He twisted his body around, his back now to the sky. He grasped one of her hands as his other seized the flagpole.

"I can't!" Mary was too scared to move – one misstep and she'd plummet to her death.

"I won't let you fall, I promise," Matthew said. He grasped her hand and started to heave her over the rail. "I've got you, don't worry."

Mary grunted as the bars pressed hard into her abdomen, and her legs dangled in the air. She hesitated, comprehending the very real possibility of losing her grip; she heard as other unlucky persons tumbled across the deck, bones cracking as they slammed into the docking bridge and the capstans.

"Come on!" Matthew jerked her arm, pulling her until she was lying flat against the rungs, her legs sticking out. Gingerly, she swung them over the rail and inched her body so that she was next to Matthew, lying across the thin bars and facing the near-vertical deck. Matthew edged closer to Mary, one arm over her back and both hands trembling.

"You're alright now," Matthew said. "Don't worry, I have you."

The ship was almost completely upright by now. White water boiled around the fractured end of the ship, engulfing those who fell. Mary gripped the railing fiercely, her head spinning as she felt  _Titanic_  carry her higher. Matthew's hand wrapped around hers, as if to prevent her from letting go.

"I won't let you fall," he promised.

Mary could only nod; her eyes were fixated on the scene below her. The people directly next to them were still suspended, legs dangling over the long drop, too frightened to even cry out. Mary wanted to reach out to the woman beside her, to pull her over the edge as Matthew had done, but at that second the woman's hands slackened and she fell, her body crumpling against a bench fifty feet down.

The stern was now straight up in the air, like an enormous steel monolith. It went still, sitting stable on top of the water.

Mary looked around, trying to understand what was about to happen. She couldn't feel the ship sinking; it was completely steady, the persistent creaking racket reduced to sporadic bursts. She cautiously shifted her feet, freezing as she remembered how precarious her position was.

"What – what's going on?" She turned her head to look up at Matthew, but he couldn't seem to reply. He was looking all the way down, eyes trained on the heap of people, alive and dead, piled up against any level surface. One by one, those still hanging to the rail dropped, some bouncing off into the water. The cries of help were isolated, as though the hundreds still holding tightly to  _Titanic_  had been silenced by their own trauma. Apart from the terrified shouts and thudding of flesh against metal, the ship itself was nearly silent. Nearly.

Matthew gulped as he watched the thick foam ripple outward from the base. "We won't stay like this for long."

In response, Mary grasped his other hand, the one not covering her own. She panted hard, trying to keep from screaming herself – the end was so close. She could feel it like a shadow over her and Matthew.

But as if he had heard her thoughts, Matthew said, "This isn't the end. There might still be a chance."

_A slim one_ , he realized immediately afterwards.  _Only if the boats come back once we—_

The ship jolted suddenly, jostling both of them. Mary's feet slipped between the bars of the railing, and she squirmed as she tried to lift them back out. She was not going to let this ship trap her when the ocean pulled her down. She managed to ease out her numb ankles as the stern shuddered again, almost like an electric shock without the pain.

_Can't this just be over now?_   _Why is it taking so long to bloody sink?_

"Mary, listen to me carefully," Matthew said quickly, his words melding together. "When we hit the water, you have to swim as hard as you can. Keep kicking for the surface and get as far away from the ship as possible. If you don't, you be sucked down. Hold onto my hand and kick for the surface, do you understand?"

Mary tightened her hand around his. "I understand. I'll try."

Matthew nodded. "Don't let go, whatever you do."

"I won't, I promise," Mary said.

They smiled at each other, though they were sad smiles for they were frightened beyond belief.

At that exact moment, the damaged skeleton of  _Titanic_  began to creak again. Slowly but relentlessly, the latter section of the great ship began to slide beneath the spume, staying vertical as the eddies and waves began to churn.

_This is it,_ Matthew thought with the utmost trepidation,  _this is her final moment._

As she plunged beneath the sea,  _Titanic_ gathered speed, the waves mercilessly engulfing the bodies at the forward rail. The people swaying above the swirling waters gasped and wailed – for some of them, it would be their very last sounds. So many still dropped like soft dolls to be consumed by the seething froth. Several of the bulkheads burst, spraying mist outward across the field of tiny figures swimming or treading within the surge. Masts and cables snapped and collapsed across the water. The maelstrom wasn't as great as perhaps most had feared, but the sea still swelled and purled intensely.

Mary stared as the water gushed closer, ready to claim her and Matthew in mere seconds. She felt the horrible nauseating feeling of descending through the air uncontrollably, and as  _Titanic_  picked up speed the sensations of horror and despair worsened, until she found herself crying out, "Oh God! Oh, oh God!" over and over.

"Hold on to me!" Matthew shouted.

Mary instinctively tightened her grasp on Matthew's hand, but she could not tear her eyes from the roiling vortex the stern was sinking into. "Oh, God! Oh my God!"

"Don't let go!"

The rushing eddy was near enough to see the smoke and ashes spurting from holes in the ship, and the various objects and people bobbing up and down on the surface. The plunge had accelerated – half a minute, and Mary and Matthew would be underwater.

"We're going to make it," Matthew said over the gurgle of the current. "We're not going to die tonight."

Mary nodded, gasping as the water sprayed up to her face. "Please don't let go of me, Matthew."

"I won't. I'm staying with you," Matthew answered. "We're going to live – do you hear me? We are both going to live."

"We're both going to live," Mary repeated, her voice faint next to the loud rolling of the waves.

The wrathful sea swallowed the docking bridge and the people still caught on it, cascading across the last few feet of deck. Mary and Matthew both felt the biting sting of the water on their faces and hands; despite the aggressive quaking of the ship they still held on to each other and to the railing. The roaring of the waves was deafening. On the back of the black hull, directly below Mary and Matthew's feet, the golden letters spelling out  _Titanic_  vanished under the thundering upsurge.

"Matthew!" Mary screamed.

"Hold on to me!"

Both of them drew in a deep breath a heartbeat before the very end of the stern, where both of them were perched, dove beneath the surge. The waves lashed over the railing, above the flagpole, until there was nothing left to be seen of the proud vessel. Only a rapid bubbling marked where she had taken her final launch, passing smoothly into the deep dark ocean.

At last, under the backdrop of the star-studded sky, the luxury and strength of  _Titanic_  vanished completely, never to return to the surface.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *horrified silence* *no more tears left*
> 
> 1\. What happened to Titanic's structure in the last few minutes is unclear, especially after the lights went out, as there were so few survivors who were rescued after the ship went down. The dynamos failed shortly before the pressure between the upended stern and the submerged bow was too much (it was concentrated at one of the weakest points in Titanic's skeleton) and the ship snapped nine decks down. The keel attached the severed sections, and as the bow plummeted down it raised up the stern. After the bow detached the flooding at the base of the stern section forced it upright, where it stayed for a few moments before sinking at around 2:20.


	13. The Former World Passes

_2:21_

Mary's hand broke from the stern railing; through narrow eyes she saw the gold lettering spelling out  _Titanic,_  the shadow of the black hull falling away from her into the gloomy black ocean.

_It's gone,_  she thought,  _it's really gone_.

Recalling Matthew's instructions she began to kick wildly, though her legs felt leaden and ached from the sudden submersion into the freezing water. She could hardly see anything through the bubbles rising up to the surface, and it was far too dark to see much besides the people directly next to her. Her hair spread out like wispy filaments _Titanic_  had disappeared from view, diving faster on its final journey to the ocean floor. All around her, bodies spun and tumbled as the force of the whirlwind dragged them in every direction. The living still struggled spasmodically, trying to find the way up. There was no sound but the current.

She realized, thankfully, that Matthew's had was still attached to hers, and she saw his arms and legs thrashing, trying to right himself. His other hand reached out for Mary, grabbing a strap on her lifebelt and heaving her upwards. She remembered that both of them were wearing lifebelts – they should float once they got to the surface.

Just when she felt her lungs were about to burst, the water rushed off of Mary's face and she sputtered and gasped. The cold the rest of her body was immersed in was so intense it felt like it was burning her skin off. The water was colder than the air, and her breath hung as a hot cloud in front of her face. She could not see anything but the waves roiling about and the hundreds of people flailing and threshing, kicking up foam, clawing for anything to keep them from drowning. Debris that had broken off the ship as she sank had rose to the surface and deck chairs floated like tiny rafts.

Matthew's stunned head emerged in front of Mary, damp hair clinging across his forehead. He panted, "Are you alright?"

Mary gave a short grunt of affirmation, shuddering. She could barely keep her head above the water with everyone flailing so close to them and churning the waves. She was treading water with tottering limbs, and surely she wouldn't be able to do so for much longer.

Matthew looked around for something they could grab hold to before they tired themselves out; they were almost in the middle of the field of people fighting for life. It was so dark that he could not see the lifeboats, though he glimpse the light of a torch flashing about.

"We have to swim – swim and find something to hold onto," Matthew said. "Can you stay close to me?"

"Yes – yes, I think I can," Mary answered.

She started to, but it had been so long since the last time she had – there wasn't much opportunity in York or London – and her strokes were clumsy, due in part to the bulky lifebelt around her chest. She tried to stay near to Matthew, not taking her eyes off of him.

"That's it, Mary, keep swimming," Matthew coaxed.

Water gargled out of Mary's mouth. "Matthew, it's – it's so cold," she wheezed.

"Keep swimming. Come on." Matthew's own strokes were sluggish, but he stubbornly kept sloshing through the water, and Mary had to force herself to paddle onwards to stay close to him. They strained past men and women reaching for broken objects, children shrieking for their parents, mothers trying to hold their babies above the water. They were all in a worse position than they had been when standing on the ruined ship.

As he swam, Matthew looked around for something big enough for him or Mary to hold on to, something that no one would try to fight them off for. He fought to keep his head above water as he swam without direction. There were deck chairs that the stewards had thrown over scattered about, smaller objects that had fallen from the ship as she tilted, parts of her hull and structure of all sizes. The closest thing he could see afloat was a tangle of maybe three deck chairs ten feet away.

"There, Mary," he said, nodding his head to the cluster. "Just a little further."

Mary coughed and spluttered, but when she saw what Matthew indicated, her lumbering strokes suddenly weren't so aimless. It seemed to take ages to reach that tangle of chairs, staying the same distance apart, splashing uselessly, but when Matthew extended a shaking hand and grabbed it the world suddenly came back into focus.

"Here, come here," Matthew said. He drew Mary to the chairs by the shoulder of her lifebelt, and as soon as she was within reach she slapped her hands across the wood; they had been floating in the water for a while, and it was like touching a giant block ice. Still, it was enough for now – they could wait here until the boats came back, and they wouldn't have to swim anymore. She wormed onto it so that both her arms were above water. Matthew dragged himself onto the other side of the tangle, hoisting his upper body out of the water as best as he could. The chair legs dipped a bit as it supported his weight along with Mary's. It was only buoyant enough for the two of them – anyone else grabbed on, and the whole cluster would be swamped.

"You're alright," Matthew said, smiling a bit. "We're both alright. I told you, didn't I?"

Finally, the both of them had time to pause, to breathe. They were shivering in the harsh cold, hands clutched around the posts of the chairs. The pain that both of them were feeling – the extreme cold of the water they were drenched in – was more than either of them had ever experienced before. It was like being singed with a frozen fire. Already their lips were blue and each fingertip was numb. Mary was shaking so much her teeth rattled.

"Just hold on a little longer," Matthew said. "I'm sure the boats will be coming back any minute now."

Mary looked around, but she couldn't even see the boats on the dark horizon. "There's s-so many … people."

It was chaos all around, and the sounds of it were more terrible than anything anyone had heard before. The collective noise of helpless people thrashing about, emitting desparing calls and agonizing moans were absolutely haunting. Those were the sounds of whole families, children – all of them fearing to drown, though the sub-zero temperature of the water was the far greater threat. The people who had took hold of a piece of floating wreckage were somewhat calmer, but even they must have realized the trouble they were in.

"For God's sake, help us!" hundreds shouted to the lifeboats. "Come back! Help!"

It was inconceivable as to how many were left in the icy waters; the sea was like a thick snowy field of pale faces, from which every miserable human emotion arose. There was fear, torment, anger, hopelessness … neither Mary nor Matthew could think of anything to say for several minutes. Just listening to those defeaning pleas was excruciating, and it was just as awful to know that they couldn't do anything to help. All that was left for them was to wait for the boats to row to them.

In the middle of the freezing North Atlantic, it was their last hope.

The minutes dragged on, a single moment feeling like an hour. Gradually, the screaming and wailing died down, and now there was only scattered moaning and sobbing. Mary and Matthew hadn't moved from their tangled chairs, but both of them were shivering uncontrollably – they were feeling the harsh effects of the icy water they drifted in. The swell of the ocean had abated, the deck chairs now rhythmically undulating. The scene was more peaceful than it had been before, but the sense of isolation was overwhelming. For the two of them, it seemed that the rest of the world did not exist, that this cold ocean was all that was left.

"Can you s-see the boats now?" Mary asked faintly, her breath spiralling into a grey cloud. "I can't … s-see them at all."

Matthew turned his head as much as he was able to, his hair crackling; it had frozen across his head. He could not see anything over the heads of the crowd floating in the water. He couldn't see any torches, or hear much else besides the irregular shouts. He noticed some of the bodies face down in the water, completely inert. Were the silent people simply exhausted from their struggle, or had they perished already?

"Do you … think we should swim more?" Mary asked. "So we can … see the boats … w-when they come?"

"No," Matthew said. "You need to rest. You can't tire yourself out."

"Do I look tired to you?" Mary let out what was meant to be a laugh, but it sounded like a feeble gasp.

Matthew chuckled weakly. "It has been a long night."

He recalled all that had happened: he had seen the iceberg at half-past eleven, or just after, then he had returned to the stateroom shortly after. The call to muster up on deck had come a few minutes later. Then all of the running about, up and down corridors and stairwells, searching for the Bransons. The race to the lifeboat, then the rush for the stern … it didn't seem like a few hours. A whole lifetime had passed within the span of almost three hours.

Mary's eyes looked up to the sky, still amazingly starry after all the misfortune of the night. "They're gone, aren't they?"

"What do you mean?" asked Matthew. His body convulsed suddenly; he could practically feel the cold inside of him.

Mary did not say anything for a moment – she struggled to speak aloud her horrible thoughts. "None of them made it. They're all gone."

Matthew realized with a tug to his heartstrings that she was talking about the Strallans and the Bransons. "You don't know that," he said, squeezing her hand. "You can't assume something like that."

Her eyes absently scanning the sky, Mary's face was expressionless. "I don't know h-how … it's like a hunch, but stronger …" She was having trouble getting the breath to speak.

"Don't – don't talk like that," Matthew said. "They m-might be safe. T-they could be in any one of those boats. T-they'll find us."

He shifted one arm forward, taking Mary's chilled hand in his. He could barely feel her skin, and he guessed she had lost most sensation there. His fingers ran in small circles over the back of her hand. Mary looked down at his hand on hers, the dim light in her eyes the only part of her that conveyed what she was thinking.

"I can't feel my body," she whimpered. "I'm so … so cold."

"Then rest, my darling. Save your strength," Matthew said.

Mary nodded, shivering violently. She blinked rapidly. "I love you, Matthew."

"No," Matthew said, confusing Mary briefly. "This … this isn't the end. You mustn't give up. When the boats come round, I don't care if I have to fight off the others, but we're getting in a boat, no matter what."

"Matthew, you don't understand. I can't see the boats … they aren't coming. I-if they haven't c-come … b-by now, then—"

"Don't, Mary," Matthew reproved. "You mustn't … don't think that. You can't give up. You can't."

Mary smiled sadly. "Oh Matthew. Please don't quarrel with me. Not now."

"I will if I have to," Matthew retorted. His throat felt dry as he spoke. "Listen to me. You're a fighter, Mary. You're stronger than you think you are. I won't let you go. Right now, I only have you to hold on to. So don't you dare leave me."

"I won't," Mary said, "as long as you don't leave me either." Her voice was reduced to a whisper, but her hand grasped his with surprising strength.

"Good." Matthew said. He wanted to pull himself closer to her, to kiss her pallid cheek, but he didn't want to let the deck chairs be swamped. He kissed her stiff fingers instead, noticing how stony they were.

"Just relax now," he said. "It's alright. I'll keep an eye out for the boats."

"I don't think I could sleep now," Mary sighed. "T-too cold."

"No, don't go to sleep," Matthew said. "Keep calm and don't wear yourself out. Don't talk anymore. As soon as I see the boats, I tell you."

Mary nodded, her chin scraping against the wooden deck. She put her head against the back of one of the chairs, breathing slowly and shallowly. Lids flitting dully, her eyes tracked up to the inky heavens.  _How strange,_ she thought,  _that at a time like this the stars are shining so brightly._ It was like a cruel exploit of nature that such a beautiful clear, calm night had been the stage for such chaos and distress.

"Stay with me, Mary," Matthew told her. "Stay with me."

"I will," Mary replied.

Their hands remained clenched together as they lay with their heads touching, waiting in uncertainty, without much to pin their hopes on, with only each other to cling to in the bleakness.

* * *

Matthew felt like he was floating in a void, the world at a standstill around him. He could not guess how much time had passed, if it was a few minutes or several hours. Everything around him was the same: he was still hanging onto the entangled deck chairs, Mary's hand locked around his, and they were still borne by the gentle ripples. He tried to swish his legs, still dangling in the darkness, but he could barely feel them. Come to it, he couldn't feel much of his body at all, nor the chill of the water.

He realized that the sea had grown silent. The voices that had wailed and moaned and called and pleaded had subsided, leaving only the sounds of water lapping around them. Raising his frost-flecked eyelids, he saw the endless field of debris – timber beams, furniture, doors, parts of the bulkhead – and hundreds of bodies and lifebelts, some still clinging to the fragments of  _Titanic_. Men, women, children, infants … so many lives severed years before their time, so many eyes that would never see dry land or the sun again.

Matthew turned his head as much as he could so he didn't have to look at that horrible site. It took an awful amount of strength just to reposition his head against the chairs so he could face Mary. He felt like his brain was made out of stone, and his cheek could barely feel the wood he was leaning against or the cold water that sloshed across the cluster of deck chairs.

"Mary," Matthew croaked, his voice no clearer than a raspy whisper. It hurt to speak – his throat felt taut and stung as he tried to form his words. "Mary, my darling …"

She was completely motionless, her cheek resting against the back of a deck chair, her face turned away from him. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully, just as Matthew had often seen her when he climbed into bed long after she did.

Matthew whispered her name again. He tilted his head more so he could see her face.

Her eyes were open, but glassy.

"Mary?" Matthew raised his head a bit, and he shook the hand that was clutched around his wife's. "Mary … can you hear me … please, Mary …"

She did not respond. There were no clouds of breath emanating from her blue lips. Her brown eyes stared hard at the water, unblinking.

Matthew's voice began to falter as he repeatedly said her name. He shook her hand harder, rubbing his fingertips against her pale chilled skin. "Mary … oh God … no …"

A cold wave of dread, even colder than the sea he was immersed in, rushed through his numb body. He could only stare at Mary's still face as the realization speared through him.  _No_ ,  _this isn't real. She's not gone. She's not … oh no … no, she can't be!_

"My darling," he uttered softly, a whisper that turned into a sob. "Mary, please … don't leave me." His eyes began to sting and he gasped as the tears began to roll down his face. "Come back, Mary … come back …"

All hope of surviving this nightmare, all of his will to live left him in an instant. This was the moment he had secretly dreaded, yet never dared to think of: his beautiful Mary, still so young, lying lifeless in front of him. It didn't feel real to him; how could she be gone? How could he be holding onto nothing but a shell? The woman he loved most in the world, the only one he would love so deeply – what did he have to live for now?

There wasn't any point now, not to believing that he would survive this night. There wasn't a reason to try. Mary was gone, and the life they were meant to live together snuffed out as well. The kisses they would never share, the peaceful nights they would no longer spend with each other, the family that would never be formed … all of the hopeful talk they had once shared was now never to be.

His spirit shattered, Matthew lay his head back down against the drifting chairs. Their hands had frozen together, and he couldn't move the rest of his body. His eyes began to flutter as if he was slipping into a deep sleep. How long did he have before his heart stopped? To him, death could not come fast enough, for every second that he lived without Mary his heart was tearing apart inside his chest.

"I love you, my darling Mary," he whispered. He managed a weak smile, as though she could still see him and smile back. "You have no idea how much I have loved you."

Like slipping into a dream, his vision began to blur, the lapping of the ocean becoming muted. He kept his eyes fixed on Mary, his hand never to let go of hers. He had promised he would not leave her, and he had to keep that promise for her sake.

When Fifth Officer Lowe's lifeboat rowed through the dark centre of the wreckage, over ten minutes later, he waved his torch around the lifeless passengers, keeping a sharp lookout for survivors. As the seamen dragged the oars through the mass of bodies and debris, the light of Lowe's torch hit a sight that made him gasp.

"Sir?" one of the oarsmen asked.

"Oh God," Lowe shuddered.

His light was focused on two people, a man and a woman, clinging to a mess of deck chairs. The woman was dressed like a lady, one hand frozen to the man's, who gazed vacantly at her with icy blue eyes. Even frozen in death, they both looked so deeply in love.

Lowe trembled, tears running down his face. It was the most horrible, touching moment of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *okay, I really am sobbing right now* *god what is my own writing doing to me?*
> 
> This isn't the last chapter, I've got an epilogue in the works!
> 
> 1\. The sea temperature that night was likely 28 degrees Fahrenheit, negative 2 degrees Celsius. In water that cold, a healthy human can succumb to hypothermia within twenty minutes. It was the leading cause of death amongst victims of the disaster, more so than drowning perhaps. There were a few survivors who managed to survive at the wreck site before being rescued, most notably chief baker Charles Joughin, who tread water for several hours before reaching Collapsible B. Evidence points to his bizarre survival the result of him imbibing heavily in the night, for though alcohol generally increases the risk of hypothermia, it is suggested that a specific level can slow heat loss. I still find that fact freaking crazy, but it's true.
> 
> 2\. Fifth Officer Lowe took lifeboat 14 back to where the ship sank to search for survivors, however the boat made it back around 3:00, far too long to rescue anyone completely immersed in the water. The reasoning for the delay was that if they had turned back immediately after the ship went under, the boat would be swamped by the passengers or tip over. They were only able to rescue a small number of people, a few of those dying shortly after due to the effects of exposure.
> 
> 3\. It is difficult to put an exact number on the survivors and the victims of the disaster. The number of deaths is approximately 1514, while the number saved is about 710 (making for 2,224 passengers and crew total). 32% were saved, with 100% of the children from second class being saved and 92% of the men from second class dying.


	14. Epilogue

Words could not describe the long period between when the last cries of the forsaken were uttered and when salvation came for the ones in the lifeboats. Most could hardly speak a word – the great loss they had just witnessed had left them all shaken, confused, and guilty. Yes, it was a sorry sight to see the greatest ship ever built, the pride and joy of the modern world, be dragged down to the depths of the ocean, but even more harrowing was the realization that a great number of lives had been dragged into the ocean along with her, screaming and praying for rescue that would not come in time for them. Wives had lost their loving husbands, children had lost their parents or siblings, men had lost their friends – and fate had not acted discriminately. Class, wealth, age nor education had not mattered in the end. That was the real tragedy of that night – so many lives and loves could have been saved, yet they had not.

At 3:50 Monday morning, after a dangerous journey through pack ice, the Carpathia reached the area where the survivors had waited for rescue from the lonely, silent ocean. The lifeboats were still bobbing up and down in the waters, the passengers they carried famished and red-eyed from exhaustion. The Carpathia, bound for Europe, steamed back for New York, carrying the sorrowful survivors who would never forget their ordeal. They brought with them the truth about the Titanic's fate; still so many believed that she had not sunk, that she was being towed to Halifax, that all aboard had been saved.

It was Anna Smith who set foot on the pier in New York on that solemn evening, when the full tragedy of April 15 came to full awareness. Seven hundred souls, out of two-thousand two-hundred, were met at the crowded docks, some families reuniting, others never recovering from the agony that ripped through them as they learned their loved ones had not survived. Mrs Levinson received Anna and, though grief-stricken, treated her warmly as a guest in her house. Yet before they drove to the mansion, Anna sent the dreadful telegram informing Lord and Lady Grantham that none of the Crawley sisters or their beloved husbands were accounted for, and that the only conclusion anyone could come to was that they had perished in the disaster.

The anguish Robert and Cora suffered upon reading Anna's telegraph was unimaginable in its agony. In a single night, they had lost every one of their beloved children. It had not been war or illness or some other force that had torn their daughters' away: it had been chance, purely illogical chance, and the arrogance of an antiquated world. Not even one of their children's bodies was recovered from the wreck site. Their devastation was shared by everyone who knew the girls and their husbands – the staff at Downton who had known them as children, the friends they had made in London and Dublin and York, family near and distant – they all experienced some sensation at hearing the news.

There was shock of course, shock at the death of an unsinkable ship and the needless tragedy that had occurred. There was disbelief, a refusal to accept the reality of the disaster and its effects, for the hurt that came with believing it was all too painful. Then there was anger, a revolutionary rage that rippled out for years afterward, a plea to change the laws that had secured the fates of hundreds of people, in the hopes that a similar catastrophe would be averted. Yet the shadow of grief over the Crawley family would never fade, for their losses could never be regained, no matter how many laws were overturned and rewritten, how many hulls were strengthened, nor how many memorials were erected.

It is often claimed that the old world sank along with Titanic. It was not only rules and regulations that were made different; the very framework of society began to alter, slowly at first, but in time the change was palpable. No longer did people believe that the prowess of man could triumph over nature. Wealth and position became less important, and boundaries between the classes began to blur.

The world had been in a dream before, but on April 15th 1912, it awoke with a start.

* * *

 

When Matthew opened his eyes, everything was so bright.

The light shining through the glass windows was of the purest white, like they were encased in snow. From the electric lamps, it glowed like a golden candleflame. He felt the warmth, like the embrace of a loved one, envelop him; there was no trace of iciness anywhere, nothing to chill him ever again. He could not be sure, but there were the soft sounds of ocean waves from far off, crashing gently against the hull of the ship.

Matthew blinked as his wonder turned to confusion. There was no question that the terrible night had transpired, and even in this strange state he knew this was not a dream. But what was he doing here, surrounded by such brilliance? Surely the amazing light could not penetrate so far deep into the ocean.

When the answer came to him, he felt only a peacefulness settle inside him. The heartache of his soul separating from his mortal body did not come, as he had often imagined would happen when he became aware of his own passing. He was relieved, really, that he was no longer suffering in the silence. He was no longer frozen stiff in the cold dark sea, completely alone, his hands clinging to the lifeless figure of—

He turned his head to see Mary sitting beside him, her hands clasped around his. She stirred, as if she had been sleeping, but when her eyes fluttered open they were vividly bright and her broad smile was blithe.

"Hello darling," she said, raising her head and giving Matthew a kiss.

Matthew lifted his hand to caress her cheek, as if he was still in disbelief. Her skin was not cold as he half-expected. It felt completely like her, her own warmth, and the feeling of her in his arms again, smiling happily up at him, made him tremble with emotion.

"Oh Mary," he breathed. "I'm so sorry."

"Matthew, don't," Mary said in anticipation of what he was about to tell her. "Whatever you're going to say, it can't be helped."

"I promised you we would make it," Matthew said ruefully. "Over and over again, I swore to you we would stay alive – and we didn't. Any chance we had to survive, we let it go."

"There was nothing to be done about it," Mary tried to convince him. "It was not our fault those boats didn't come back. But if you think I'm angry at you, I promise you I'm not. The only thing I'm sorry for is that my time came sooner than yours. I'm to blame; I didn't hold on."

She brushed a strand of Matthew's hair away from his forehead, a gesture she often made as they lay together in bed, still awake in the late hours. "I don't regret staying behind until the end. Had I stayed in that lifeboat, without you, I would have never been able to live knowing I had left you by yourself on the ship. It would not have mattered if I had survived, because without you, my life still would not have been saved. Part of me would have died along with you.

"So it's better this way," she continued. "We stayed together all through that horrible time, and now we'll stay with each other forever."

Both of them understood what was now lost as a result of their dying: the futures they had dreamed of since before they were married were never to be achieved, and the lives they had left behind would be steeped in grief for years to come. Yet Death had not separated them – their souls would live on together, never again at risk of being apart. Even the briefest moments they spent away from each other would not give them the worry of being hurt while they were out of each others' sight. They were safe, and their hearts would never break again.

Aftet a few silent minutes, Mary stood up. She looked to one end of the room, where the doors were. "Let's go through," she said. "The others are waiting for us."

Matthew did not need her to name names to know who she was talking about. "At least they're all together as well."

"They never would have parted either, even in the face of death," Mary said.

Matthew nodded. "But that makes it no less tragic."

Mary looked about her, at all the glowing light, the luxurious beauty of the setting – it seemed so familiar, and yet unlike anything she had seen on Earth. "Is this … is this actually heaven?" she questioned, her voice shaking a little.

Matthew's eyes ran across the room as he stood next to her. "Right now, I believe that this place is far more beautiful than heaven could ever be."

Together, they made their way to the door; the steward opened it to let them through, bowing deeply. Inside, surrounding the fore grand staircase, was a sea of smiling faces. Some stood in beautiful shimmering gowns and tailcoats, others in simple shawls and shirts, yet they were no less radiant. As Mary and Matthew entered the room they turned to welcome them, some bowing their heads as they parted to allow them to approach the staircase. It was hard to believe these were merely the souls of those lost in a horrific disaster, for there hardly a sad tear on anyone's cheek.

"Mary! Matthew!" Sybil emerged from crowd, Tom following right behind her.

"Oh, darling Sybil," Mary said, coming forward to embrace her sister. "You honestly can't know how worried we were for you."

"Edith told me how all of you were looking for us," Sybil said. "It was my fault. I should have realized the danger I was putting Tom and I in."

"You did what you believed was the right thing to do," Mary reassured her. "A hundred more people should have had the same intentions as you. And I don't blame you, because there's no use for it now."

Sybil smiled tenderly. "I only wish that we were meeting in different circumstances."

"What other way would you have it?" Tom asked her. "Everyone stayed together until the very end, even when we knew what was bound to happen. All of us, Edith and Anthony included, deserve it least to be separated by life and death."

"Never were truer words spoken," Matthew agreed.

"Speaking of which, where are Edith and Anthony?" Mary asked.

"They're waiting for you, of course," Sybil answered. "Come on, this way."

With Tom on her arm, Sybil led the path to the staircase, Mary and Matthew following behind. Beneath the perfect glass dome, Edith and Anthony stood with each other in front of the carving of Honour and Glory crowing Time.

"You've made it," Edith said.

"Believe it or not, I am genuinely glad to see the two of you," Mary replied.

Edith smirked and looked up at Anthony. "I didn't anticipate much to change."

"Of course things have changed," Anthony said. "The whole world will have changed."

"That may be so," Tom said as he ascended the stairs with Sybil, "but one thing that won't have altered one little bit is our love. That has survived, and thanks to it, our souls shall endure."

The passengers, officers and crew of the RMS Titanic smiled and applauded as the loving couples kissed, the light shining down upon them through the glass dome. As the Crawleys, Strallans, and Bransons stood together on the landing, all of them knew their everlasting lives would not be filled with uncertainty or sorrow. Even with their names written on the list of the perished, they were not truly lost. The forces of nature may have taken their former lives, but they could not sever the bonds of love that kept them together.

Nothing on Earth would come between them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue end credits*
> 
> So that's the end of that. Boy, what a journey this has been.
> 
> I just want to say, to all of the people who followed this story all through the horrible things I put STEAMM through, thank you so much for your support. When I started this I had no idea how people would react, whether it would be positive or negative, but judging from the reviews I think it has been positive reaction. I think I was afraid you'd hate me because people flock to Fanfiction to keep their characters and their ships alive, and I wasn't necessarily doing that. But most if not all of you have been incredibly encouraging about this, because it has been difficult even for me to drag some of my favourite characters ever through such a terrible event and not having them make it out alive. So thank you so much for your support, and for staying with me even when you started to realize what I was doing.
> 
> I don't really know if you guys want an explanation for my killing off the entire STEAMM ship, but I think I owe you one anyhow. Back in July when I was making the photosets, I decided right then that every ship was either going to have to survive or perish, and the likelihood of every ship surviving intact was next to impossible. I wasn't going to split them apart (ex. have Mary or Edith survive and their husbands go down with the ship) because that's already canon, and I didn't feel that it would be right to leave one ship alive and another dead. So in order to make it as logical as possible as well as keeping the ships together, I was really only left with the one option.
> 
> As for the whole placing-them-on-Titanic-which-we-all-know-sinks-in-the-end problem, I think I was out to prove you don't necessarily need to have a strictly happy ending for a ship, as long as there's happiness somewhere in the story. Throughout the story STEAMM stays together even when faced with danger and even though they don't survive, their love still goes on, and that's the theme I wanted to touch on. Their love still resonates, especially for us, who have to deal with these ships that are hardly acknowledged anymore in canon. Even if I killed them all, I didn't separate them, and that for me was most important when formulating how exactly they would pass on.
> 
> So thank you all again, I'm so glad you've liked this story, I'm sorry if I broke your hearts (you know what, I'm done apologizing, your hearts can mend), and I hope you'll keep reading my fics.
> 
> *plays My Heart Will Go On one more time*


End file.
